


LiberLibre

by Renega



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-06 12:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17345138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renega/pseuds/Renega
Summary: Hermione is full of bright shiny plans when she takes over management of the Hogwarts library from Madam Pince, but she didn't foresee the reaction of one Severus Snape, D.A.D.A. Master. The man is either her biggest enemy or staunchest ally; the trouble is figuring out which.





	1. Great Expectations

“…and I’ve been making reading lists for all of the years, starting with Charms and Herbology,” she continued, looking up from her papers. “I changed all the wards in the restricted section as well. I wanted to try something that responded to intent, but it’s hard to tell how well they’re working. I can hardly ask the students to dabble in the Dark Arts so I can evaluate the wards.”

“You’ve been very productive, Hermione.”

She smiled broadly and sighed – a deep, relieved sigh. “Thank you, Minerva.”

Minerva’s hand rose up and rested on her shoulder. “Just remember, dear, that you have all the time in the world. Everything doesn’t have to be finished yesterday.”

Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut and she took a deep breath. It was so difficult to stop pushing, stop tilting at windmills, stop inventing windmills to tilt at.

Success at the ministry meant building up a strong defense, staying two steps ahead of your opponents and cultivating your allies. But then Hermione had realized that she was tired of fighting…fighting the Wizengamot, fighting the bureaucracy, fighting Ron at home. Her life had been nothing but struggle, and half her battles were of her own creation. Without a common enemy to stand against, she and Ron had turned on each other, the competition between them becoming intense. Somehow, it had all come off the rails, and when she’d put down her wand and surrendered _– I can’t do this anymore –_ she realized that learning to breathe again was going to be harder than she’d supposed.

Thank God Minerva believed in her and was willing to give her time to adjust.

The sound of the door crashing open startled both of them, and Minerva lowered her hand and stepped back.

“I need a book,” Snape snapped, swirling into the room and turning his whisper into a commanding sneer. He tossed a piece of parchment on the reference desk and raised his eyebrow.

“Well, aren’t you in a lovely mood!” Minerva sniffed. “Don’t you suppose you ought to compliment Hermione on the improvements she’s made?”

He made a deliberate show of looking around him, taking in the bright lighting, the cheery quotations hanging on the wall, and the little snack area in the corner, before turning a withering gaze on her. “Is that what you’re calling this travesty?”

She took a deep breath through her nose and stared back at him, holding her ground. Why did he still seem to derive so much delight in taunting her?

He was speaking again, flicking the back of his hand against the scrap he’d tossed. “Well?”

Don’t engage, don’t engage. It was a mantra. She pasted her most cloying, deferent smile on her face and gestured to the parchment. “Do you need help learning to use the catalog?”

His eyes widened and flashed dangerously. She could see a vein pulsing on his forehead. “What I need is the book, Madam Granger.”

He stabbed his finger at the parchment.

“Of course you do. And you can find out where it is by using the catalog.” She pointed to a clock-like device next to her. “See? You just speak the name of the book or the author – _Ibn Sina_ – and it will tell you exactly where the book is shelved. And then you can go and get it. It’s to encourage browsing.” The clock spun and then stopped with the three dials pointing to numbers. “Look here – row 14, section 3, middle shelf. They’re all labeled now, so you shouldn’t have a problem finding it. Anything else, Professor?”

His hand wavered as if he was going to go for his wand, and his nostrils were flaring dangerously. She deepened the smile to the sort of gormless rictus that would have made Dolores Umbridge proud. For a moment, she really thought he was going to hex her, but Minerva stepped between them with her lips pursed and her hands on her hips. Her voice was sharp. “Severus!”

That seemed to ratchet him down a notch, but he leaned over the counter and snatched his paper out of her hand while he spat out, “You are useless as a librarian.”

Then he spun and stormed off into the stacks.

She bit back a smile. There was something comforting about Snape’s self-absorbed fits of temper. He was reliable and constant.

And a total sodding berk.

Minerva pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You know,” Hermione said, lowering her voice to a whisper, “he was far less rude to me _before_ I took this position.”

“Your presence was far easier to tolerate when I was only forced to endure it once a year for five minutes at a stretch,” he hissed, storming by the table where both of them stood and spelling the door to slam shut behind him. He’d found the book, at least – it was tucked under his arm.

Minerva shook her head, and one of the tartan ribbons on her hat swung dangerously near a candle. “Sorry. I’ll have a word if you ask, but…he will accept this. Eventually.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. She was used to Snape being a bit…abrupt. And downright rude. And possibly insane. So it hadn’t occurred to her that he was actually put out by her presence there. “This isn’t some sort of hazing ritual?”

“Oh, heavens no. It took him three years to say as much as two words to Hannah when she began teaching Muggle Studies. He’s in a dander.”

How…confusing. “Over me?”

Minerva looked at her blankly.

“You didn’t hear about it? I’d have thought Neville…but never you mind. It’s not you, Hermione. He’s furious that Irma eloped and quit her post.”

Hermione was pretty sure she looked as stupidly confused as she felt. And then she shuddered. Snape was certainly no catch, given that his heroism, inventiveness, and a multitude of talents were offset by an uninspiring visage and an even less inspiring personality, but…Madam Pince? She had all of his disadvantages, none of his positive attributes, and she was at least a couple of decades his senior.

He’d started at Harry’s mum. Madam Pince was a long way from Lily Potter. A long, long way. Light years. Parsecs, even.

She felt a stab of pity for Snape. Even he deserved better than being strung along by Irma Pince.

“He was in love with Madam Pince?”

“His own aunt?” Minerva froze for a moment, and then emitted a strangled peal. After a few loud snorts and a sort of choking noise, the headmistress was able to continue. “I thought you knew his mother was Eileen. Irma’s sister.”

“His mother was Eileen Prince. Prince, with an ‘r’. Not Pince,” she clarified. She knew this; she had physical evidence, a clipping. It was catalogued with the rest of 1957’s ephemera.

Minerva snorted. “Yes, I do recall something about his grandfather attempting to sweeten the family surname. Septimius Pince was a deplorable social climber, and Eileen went along with it. I always respected Irma for having the gumption to flout her father at every turn.”

Hermione choked, and the laugh that she stifled lodged in her throat. It came out as a squeak.

“All right, dear?”

She nodded because she didn’t trust herself to open her mouth. Her diaphragm heaved.

“Anyway, he’s furious that she married Horace. They never did get along, even when Severus was a boy. And being forced to call him Uncle Horace…it’ll pass over. Try not to take it personally.”

Hermione nodded again. Her eyes were beginning to water, and Minerva looked concerned, so she ducked her head away.

Minerva’s voice was steady and quiet. “If you want me to speak to him, I will. I’ll leave you to think on it.”

Hermione turned completely away, her shoulders shaking, wishing Minerva would just leave. Finally, she did, and when the laugh broke it was loud and rang through the usually quiet library. There was no one about before breakfast on a Tuesday, but it was still a jarring sound. She couldn’t help it – she laughed until she was out of breath, until it was painful, and she felt better than she had in ages.

She’d never be able to look at him and keep a straight face again. Because all she could think of was that once upon a time, a long time ago, the fearsome and terrible Severus Snape had been an overweening prat who’d romanticized his smarmy grandfather.

Also, it didn’t have the quite the same ring to it now, did it?

She would never have been frightened of a half-blood _Pince_.

\|/

She waited at the door, straightening her notebook yet again, surveying the seating arrangements at her first staff meeting. It was difficult to tell where she fell in the hierarchy since she was neither teacher nor administrator. Minerva certainly treated her as a peer, and Neville deferred to her as he’d always done, but she wasn’t quite sure about the rest of them. Poppy and Hagrid still doted on her as if she was a child, and the newer teachers had been courteous but distant. She held a cautious hope that Flitwick would prove a friend, and a cautious hope that Snape’s attacks on her person would at least not descend to Jinxing and Hexing, but she wasn’t sure of the odds on either.

Time would tell.

She had to avoid being too chummy with Neville, and too intimate with Minerva, or she’d never be able to accomplish anything at all. The library was a sacred space which belonged to all houses equally, and she had to be a Gryffindor second.

There – next to Daphne Greengrass – an empty seat. Hermione strode toward it, placed her notebook squarely on the table, and slid into the chair. She turned to Daphne and smiled. “Good morning, Professor Greengrass.”

Daphne offered a weak smile in return, her brow furrowing. Hermione sensed that her choice of seats had displeased the potions mistress, but didn’t understand why.

She wanted Daphne as an ally. She was clever and competent and hadn’t been a Death Eater. Hermione thought the two of them might be able to start building bridges, but she’d have to take it a bit slower if this was the sort of reception she was going to receive.

A shadow fell across her notebook, slanting against the light from the windows. Hermione glanced up.

Snape was staring at Daphne, a question in his eyes. After a moment, his gaze flickered and met Hermione’s. He studied her intensely, and she wanted to duck her head away from his scrutiny, but instead she forced herself to speak. “Professor Snape.”

He glared at her and then shifted, pulling out the empty chair to her left.

She blinked. Surely he didn’t…

He sat next to her, flicking his cloak so that it snapped against her arm before settling in the space between them.

Her smile faltered as the wheels turned. Why would he sit next to her? He turned his head a bit, met her gaze, and looked a bit bemused himself.

And then suddenly his eyes lit with something like humor, and he leaned toward her. When he spoke, it was a whisper. “Did you deliberately place yourself in Slytherin, or were you just…ignorant…of the seating arrangements?”

She couldn’t help the anger that swelled in her at the insult – so personal, because he knew how much she hated to be ignorant about anything – but she was determined not to let him bait her. And then she realized that her flash of indignation had only amused him more, and he was almost smirking.

It was a moment of genuine good humor on his part, one of a handful she’d ever seen, and it reminded her of her mission and the reason she’d taken the job in the first place. And she had deliberately chosen a seat next to Daphne Greengrass because she wanted to know what would make the Slytherin students feel at home in the library, although she’d have thought twice if she’d known she was stealing Snape’s place at the table. She cast a non-verbal Muffliato, and was rewarded by a look of surprise as he realized what she’d done with his spell. And then she smiled, and in a perfectly normal tone of voice, she replied, “It was deliberate, Professor. I mean to communicate that the library is disinterested in petty house rivalries.”

He stared at her in consternation for a long moment, and she waited for some sort of reaction. She hadn’t expected him to break into a hearty smile and pledge his fealty to her vision, but she still felt frustrated when he snorted in derision and turned away from her in dismissal. She didn’t dare turn to Daphne for comfort, and a ping of loneliness coursed beneath her skin. Maybe she should have sat next to Neville after all.

She was glad when, a moment later, Minerva called the meeting to order. And she began to realize that despite his show of contempt, she had managed to pique Snape’s curiosity. Twice he’d glanced at her during the droning, as if trying to puzzle her out, and when Minerva called on her and she presented her budget requests he pounced on the opportunity to stare baldly at her.

When she had finished her short speech and elicited laughs from a few of her fellow staff members and smiles from a few more, she turned to Snape and said pleasantly, “And now it’s your turn, I believe.”

With the sharp instincts of a spy, he slid into his monologue without the slightest awkwardness. She listened to him as he made a rational and detailed case for both his classes and Slytherin. He wanted better dueling equipment for Defense and a petty fund for his prefects to spend on managing the house, and he had solid metrics to back up his proposals. Hermione watched him, perplexed by this new, milder, and more reasonable side of Professor Snape.

“And I resubmit my petition to incorporate Apparition in the OWL curriculum,” he finished, raising an eyebrow at Minerva, who shook her head in response.

“I’ll put it to the Governors again, but we mustn’t expect them to relent,” she said. She looked at Hermione for a moment with a trace of speculation, and then she moved on to Rudyard Bullstrode, who was the final staff member.

Hermoine formed a plan as Minerva wrapped up the meeting, and when it was over she took a deep breath and prepared to attempt to strike up a conversation with Snape. In the short time it took her to gather her nerve, however, Daphne rose, stepped around Hermione, and placed one of her delicate hands on Snape’s shoulder. “Asti sent a book along for you, Severus.”

After a last sharp glance at Hermione through narrowed eyes, he rose and followed Daphne out of the room.

Hermione was left with the sense that politics at Hogwarts were a lot more complex than she’d anticipated.

\|/  


“Heard you confiscated a bowl of spiked punch,” she said, sliding up to Neville, who turned at the sound of her voice. "Happy Samhain."

“Yeah,” he admitted, laughing as she held out her glass. “I can’t believe we never figured out what the staff did with the stuff they nabbed.”

He filled it under the table, and handed it back to her. She took a long sip. “Oh, that’s good. Wonder what they used?”

“Snape said it was gin infused with wormwood. Mind you, it’s a bit mood altering, so you might want to go easy.”

“I could do with some mood alteration. What are you dressed as?”

“Nicolas Flamel. Hannah was dressed as Perenelle, but she wasn’t feeling well.”

“Charming. Is she back on bed rest?”

He nodded. “So what’s the costume?”

“Maud Gonne.” Neville looked blank. “Yeats’ witch.”

“Oh, right. Well, you look stunning. That dress really suits you.”

Hermione glanced down at the folds of green and turquoise silk and the black and silver beads that formed peacock-feather designs on the hem. It was a beautiful dress, indeed. She’d kept her hair down, but it was tamed with small enamel combs. She knew she looked good; pity it was so entirely wasted at a Halloween party for adolescents.

She glanced around. Minerva was in a glorious swath of tartan and thistles and Harris tweed, and she had a sprig of heather protruding, alongside a pheasant feather, from the top of her tam. Hermione choked on her drink. “I gather the fancy dress was Minerva’s idea?”

“No doubt part of her ongoing effort to prove we English more sensible, just as Johnson avowed,” rumbled a voice beside her. “Professor Greengrass would like a bit of the toddy, Longbottom.”

Snape jiggled the glass, scarcely looking at Hermione. He was wearing his teaching robes. Her voice – undoubtedly a result of her drink making her a bit squiffy – was more arch than she intended when she replied, “And what are you dressed as? Boswell?”

Snape handed the glass over to Neville and then he paused. His eyes slid toward her and flickered briefly over her costume before he raised one of his brows. “The Head of Gryffindor’s boggart. Such stiff stuff all that vaunted courage is made of.”

Hermione bit back the snicker that threatened to rise, knowing that she should probably jump to defend her friend and the honor of her house, and she was surprised when Neville erupted in a short but delighted laugh.

“Gryffindor took down the snake, didn’t it?” Neville grinned, and Snape plucked the brimming glass out of his hand. “More than some could boast.”

Snape actually smirked.

Hermione watched the two of them in fascination. Neville wasn’t frightened, and Snape wasn’t angry. And she was feeling somewhat amused and rather affectionate toward the pair of them.

What the hell was in that punch?

“I think I missed something,” Hermione blurted.

“Not at all,” Snape drawled, turning on his heel and walking away.

“Neville, how strong is the punch?” She turned to him with not a little bit of alarm. Was she hallucinating?

Neville laughed. “Well, what was I supposed to tell you? That Snape and I were friends? That he has a sense of humor? You wouldn’t have believed me.”

“All right,” she answered, breathing deeply. “It’s just a small hallucination. Rather harmless, really.”

“See? I think you should go talk to them.”

“Talk to who?” Her heart raced. She should probably go have a lie down, and wait for the worst of it to pass.

“The Slytherins.”

“Neville, we’re not sixteen – we’re staff. We don’t sort by houses anymore.”

“Look around, Hermione.”

She did. Minerva and Poppy and Filius were huddled in a little group, which proved her theory immediately. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw.

Ernie MacMillian, Hufflepuff, and his wife Padma – not staff, but Ravenclaw – were sitting at a table and chatting with Hagrid.

Penny Weasley and Dennis Creevey were engaged in a pleasant conversation near the entrance.

That left the Slytherins. And sure enough, Snape was standing in the corner, flanked by Rudyard Bullstrode and Daphne Greengrass.

She really should turn out for staff functions more. She’d avoided becoming too chummy with any of them right off the bat, or inserting herself too quickly into meals and the lounge, but she was missing key pieces of information because of it.

“Sweet Merlin,” she breathed. “He won’t let them have any fun, will he?”

“Stop jumping to conclusions and go talk to them.”

So she did. She wove through the mass of students, and for good measure – because her inhibitions were already far gone – she downed the remainder of the punch before she stepped forward and addressed them as a group. “Professors.”

She grinned at Daphne, who gave her a weak but polite smile in response. Rudyard nodded courteously. Snape raised an eyebrow.

Hermione swallowed nervously. She was in over her head.

The silence grew a bit uncomfortable, but finally Snape spoke. “Did you have a purpose in coming all this way to speak to us, or do you expect to be entertained?”

She straightened her shoulders. “Both, actually. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the library, and I find that I need a bit of advice on navigating the politics here. You would be the experts on that, wouldn’t you?”

“Information has a price, Madam Granger.”

Of course it did. She waited for him to name it, but instead he prodded Daphne forward.

“Professor Greengrass has a proposal for you.”

Hermione nodded and smiled encouragingly at the other woman. While Hermione had believed her a bit stuck up, she was actually just shy. That was much easier to deal with.

“You stated in your budget proposal that you were seeking a grant to employ students as pages and expand the library’s hours. I would ask you to consider taking some of our students who are here on scholarship,” Daphne said, sounding not shy but calculating.

“That’s completely unethical,” Hermione blurted. “It’s all to be done by lottery.”

Daphne turned to Snape, and waved her hand. “You see, Severus? I told you so.”

He stepped forward. “I am due for patrol. Madam Granger, if you’ll join me?”

It sounded much more like a command than a request. Was he mad? He had rebuffed every advance Harry had made over the years, had thrown them all out of his hospital room as soon as he was able to speak and then avoided them quite ably after. She’d heard he’d mellowed, but she hadn’t seen much evidence to prove it. He didn’t expect her to follow his orders, did he?

“Of course,” she answered, manners taking over when reason failed her. She followed him out of the room, fairly sure that he would turn on her before the door was closed. Instead, he slowed his pace a bit to allow her to walk beside him, but he stared ahead and gave no other deign to her presence.

He didn’t speak until the great doors closed behind them and they were on the half-lit portico. He stopped and stared out over the courtyard, no doubt looking for subtle signs that rule breaking students had penetrated security and escaped outside. But for the first time, she realized he didn’t do this because he hated the students – he did it because he felt responsible for their safety.

How many times had he done this while she and Harry and Ron somehow evaded his watch and threw themselves into stupid schemes that ought to have resulted in their deaths?

He had been obsessed with keeping them safe, even them.

Especially them.

They had made his life more of a hell than it had needed to be. It wasn’t – or at least wasn’t just – about Harry’s mum. He had done the best he could for them, even if it hadn’t been much.

“I am disappointed in you, Granger,” he said softly, and his words – coming in the wake of her epiphany – stung her with shame. “You led me to believe you are unprejudiced.”

“I am,” she said, and then realized that defending herself was probably a mistake. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“You immediately assumed that Professor Greengrass was proposing that you submit to graft. You were unwilling to hear her reasons for suggesting it.”

“But –“ she began, her brow furrowing. It was unethical. What more needed to be said? Except he was being extremely mild with her, and seemed to want her to understand, and she didn’t want to fail. “All right. What are they?”

“I’d have thought you’d be more willing to listen to Daphne, who has never done you an ill turn, but if you must. There are students here on scholarship who would not attend without our assistance. When they leave, they do not work without our assistance. Their options are limited. She merely believes that an opportunity for early employment would have lasting impact.”

“Who is us?” Hermione asked, curious but dreading the answer.

“Those of us who sympathize and are still in any position to help them.”

She didn’t need to ask who they were.

“They were babies,” she hissed. “That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t, Granger.” He seemed tired, suddenly, and careworn, and she wondered if he’d drunk the punch too, and if it was dismantling his otherwise impenetrable guard.

“But Daphne and Rudyard weren’t…” she began, and then realized what she’d been about to say, and to whom.

“Bullstrode was playing for Ireland or he would have been, and Daphne has reasons of her own for taking an interest.”

She nodded, wondering vaguely what Daphne’s reasons were. Was she involved with a Death Eater? The thought crossed her mind that Daphne and Snape seemed rather close, and she wasn’t sure why it made her uncomfortable. She stuffed it down. “How many students are on scholarship at Hogwarts? You’re Deputy Head – you must know.”

“About thirty-five. Of those, twelve are sixth and seventh years.”

She studied his eyes, which were strangely gentle in the darkness. It gave her the courage to ask the next question. “And of those, how many are…in Slytherin?”

“Nine.”

She nodded, and offered him a tentative smile, which he didn’t return. “I’ll restrict my proposal to scholarship students. And then we’ll hold a lottery. Is that fair?”

“It’s as much as I expected of you, Madam Granger,” he said, motioning her back toward the doors and spelling them open with a flick of his wand.

And she decided that she was still hallucinating, because she could swear he’d made it sound like a compliment.

Much later – several days later, in fact – she realized that she’d given in to his proposal based on his word alone. And she’d forgotten that he owed her something in return. It was almost as if they’d been talking as friends.


	2. Pride vs Prejudice

The Slytherin boy with the prefect’s badge had been stealing glances at her from one of the study tables for a good five minutes. Hermione had smiled encouragingly, checked her teeth, and tried to brush down her hair, all to no avail. She was beginning to wonder if someone had hexed something across her forehead, so she was relieved when he rose and walked over to the desk, handing her a slip of parchment. “Professor Snape asked me to fetch some books for him.”

Hermione ran down the list, summoning four of the books and checking them off with her quill. She tapped her wand on the books and slid the stack across the desk, and then she wrote a quick note on the list, folded it, and placed it on top. “Please give him the note as well.”

“There were seven books,” the boy said, nodding at the pile.

“Three of them are restricted – I’ll need to speak with him first. That’s what I wrote,” she explained.

What she didn’t expect was that the boy would look at her with disgust and grab the books, storming from the room before she had time to hold up her arm or ask him to explain.

But she was waiting for the explosion when his head of house burst through the door not five minutes later with his brows stormy and his lips pulled into a sneer. She was rather relieved when he didn’t immediately begin yelling but strode to her desk and cast a Muffliato before spitting out a whispered, “Explain yourself.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared back at him. “All I said was that you needed to pick up the restricted books yourself.”

He rocked back on his heel, coolly appraising her. “Why?”

He was giving her a chance to explain? Maybe she hadn’t been hallucinating on Halloween as much as she’d thought. She’d been gearing up for a fight, and while he was still being…snappish and Snapish…he apparently wasn’t out for blood. The words tumbled out of her mouth. “I changed the wards on the Restricted Section to respond to intent. Only the person who’s taking out the books can summon them.”

His eyes widened. “You’re allowing the students to take out restricted books?”

“Only the NEWT levels,” she clarified. “Wanting to know about something isn’t a crime.”

“No, it isn’t.” The words seemed to surprise them both in equal measure, and they stared at each other silently for a moment. “Karkaroff assumed the policy was not uniformly applied.”

“That was Sergei?” She realized Snape was looking at her strangely, and she clarified again. “Viktor’s mentioned him.”

“Ah.” He stood there for a moment, and nodded before disappearing into the stacks. She chewed on her lip as she waited for him to return. Things would be a lot easier if they didn’t automatically assume the worst of her. She tried to cut them some slack since they were used to being mistrusted, but she didn’t like the insinuation that she was somehow lumped in with all the others. She’d always tried to defend them, often to her own detriment – even Snape.

Especially Snape.

She walked around the desk and was waiting as he emerged from the restricted section with his books in hand. Her voice was quiet when she spoke. “Please tell Sergei I didn’t mean to imply that I didn’t trust him.”

“He doesn’t think that at all,” he answered smoothly, but his lips curled in a sneer. “He said that you didn’t trust me.”

He stepped around her and out the door without a backward glance, and she was grateful that he hadn’t expected a response.

She wasn’t sure which one to give. Because she trusted him with her life in a fight. But she also didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, even with the benefit of magic.

She looked over the titles he’d just taken out. Now that was curious.

What did Snape want with books about mood potions?

\|/

Hermione watched as Daphne Greengrass slid by her in Snape’s arms, and tried not to wince as Dennis Creevey plodded on her instep. Again.

Was she envious of Daphne?

Of course she was. What sort of saint wouldn’t be a mite jealous of the willowy figure, the straight dark hair set against pink skin, and the elegant cut of her robes? Daphne was the sort of beauty that attracted the attention of other women, women who compared themselves against her in vain. Hermione was mature enough to realize that they wouldn’t be pursued by the same kind of man, so she wondered why she felt a pang as she watched them dance.

She didn’t wish she was the one dancing with Snape, did she?

Dennis stepped on her foot again. She’d rather not be dancing at all. Minerva’s parties made Dumbledore’s look downright Bacchanalian.

At least Snape could actually dance.

She was relieved when the song faded and she could escape to the high table where Hannah and Neville were sitting and sipping punch. She collapsed into the chair next to Hannah and slipped off her left shoe, propping her foot on her knee to rub at the new bruises.

“That is the last time I dance at one of these things. He’s bloody awful.”

“Poor girl,” Hannah said, giggling. “Nev, dance with Hermione before she swears off it entirely.”

“No, really, I’m done with dancing. Gah, these things are a fright. Why didn’t you warn me?”

“It’s not so bad. It makes Minerva happy, and the students are just glad for a chance to loosen up a bit.” Neville reached across his wife and patted Hermione’s arm.

“They look as miserable as I feel. The only people who look happy to be here, other than Minerva, are the ones with partners.”

“Do you miss Ron terribly?”

Hermione’s face must’ve shown the dismay she felt, because Hannah quickly reached over and put an arm around her shoulder. “It’s okay to miss him, Hermione. It’s Christmas.”

She shook her head. “I don’t miss Ron. Or rather I don’t miss fighting with Ron this time of year.”

“Would you like to have Christmas dinner with us? Or are you still going to Harry’s?” Hannah hugged her closer, and Hermione tried not to scoot away. She hated being smothered.

Neville rescued her by sliding a drink toward her and disentangling his wife’s arms from around her neck just as Snape approached the table, two empty glasses in hand, and set them in front of Neville.

“Mrs. Longbottom. I trust the infant is well?”

Hannah giggled. “She’s perfect, thanks. Are you going somewhere for the holiday?”

Good God. Next she’d be trolling the streets looking for squatters and thugs to invite over for goose and pudding. She wondered how Neville and Hannah were able to survive in such a cruel world with such an endless supply of good will.

But the Christmas miracle was that Snape answered her, almost politely. “Brittany.”

“How lovely! Do stop in for a pint soon, so you can meet Charlotte.”

Snape nodded, again with a simulcrum of courtesy, and picked up the glasses. “Happy Christmas. And to you as well, Madam Granger.”

Hermione watched him as he stalked across the room and offered a tumbler to Daphne, who took it with a small but genuine smile.

Even Snape had found somebody, it seemed. Hermione was tempted to ask Neville and Hannah about it, but she’d resolved not to mention it. Perhaps she was the only one who saw what was going on, and that was only because she had access to library records – most of the books he checked out were potions tomes – and the Marauder’s Map, which showed him spending more evenings than not in the lab with the potions mistress.

It didn’t seem very ethical to share either, so she chugged down her glass of punch.

Besides, they didn’t seem all that alarmed by his strange behavior.

But Hermione liked to be right, so when she somehow found herself standing next to Daphne Greengrass in the ladies, she patted her hands on her robes and smiled. “Happy Christmas, Daphne.”

“Thank you. And to you as well.” Daphne flicked her wrist and inclined her head in what Hermione supposed amounted to a friendly gesture.

“Going somewhere fun for the break?”

She nodded politely. “Nothing special – a few days in Brittany with my family. And you?”

Hermione grinned. “A few days in London with my own.”

When they parted in the hallway, Hermione felt a little thrill. She couldn’t gossip to Harry about library records, and saying that Snape spent a lot of time in a potions lab wasn’t all that salacious on its own.

But both of them admitting to a holiday in the same part of France?

It was the sort of thing which promised to make Christmas dinner loads more entertaining.

\|/  


“And they both admitted that they were going to Brittany!”

Harry and Ginny hadn’t heard – their attention was focused on Jamie. Across the table, Ron snickered. The look George gave her, which was sad and a little disapproving, broke her heart.

It had all sounded much more amusing in her head. And it was – to Ron. They weren’t even together and she was still doing it, gossiping and taking mean little snipes at people. She didn’t want to do it anymore. She gave George a rueful smile. “I mean, it’s sweet, yeah? Beauty and the Beast. He deserves to be happy.”

George smiled back at her, and winked at Angelina. Ron was masticating loudly, and he waved his fork to get their attention. “Nah, it’s gross. Harry! Hermione said Snape’s shagging Daphne Greengrass. Can you imagine someone letting the greasy git get a leg over?”

Harry looked not at Ron, but Hermione. His eyes were kind and troubled and a little sad. “He’s seeing somebody?”

Hermione still believed it was true, even if she’d been horrible to say it, so she shrugged. Harry swallowed, and nodded. “That’s good, right? That’s good.”

A bit of the old resentment toward Snape flashed through her – why did he have to be so cold to Harry, so condescending to her – but then she reminded herself – again – that he was deeply loyal and always came through when it mattered.

Hermione smiled back at Harry, and nodded, and her voice was soft. “Yeah, Harry, it is.”

Everybody deserved love. Everybody deserved a second chance. Even Snape.

Especially Snape.

So why did the idea of it bother her so much? Was she really that petty? Was she really jealous of someone else’s happiness in life?

She ignored the faint sense that she was disappointed because she’d hoped for more for him.

More than a stunning and clever and elegant woman fifteen years his junior? It was mad.

But if he was content with Daphne Greengrass, the impetuous passion of the boy was truly gone, replaced by the careful and prudent choices of a middle-aged politician. He’d once loved fire and brilliance and impetuous forthrightness. He’d once loved with a blind recklessness and a flaming certitude.

She was sad, she realized. Sad that the boy was well and truly gone – had been snuffed out by all the petty cruelties that age and wisdom wrought.

She reached out and put her hand on Ginny’s stomach, rubbing at the bump beneath her shirt.

“All right, Hermoine?” Harry asked, covering her hand with his own.

She smiled at the sweetness in her old friend’s expression. This was her family. Except the crazy codger wasn’t some mad uncle but her ex, and Harry wasn’t really her brother except in spirit. But that was okay. She squeezed his hand and laid her head on Ginny’s shoulder. “I love you all.”

“Pass the pudding, will you sugar?” When she didn’t respond, Ron reached across the table and plucked the bowl from in front of her with a cheeky grin.

“Even Ron. Occasionally.”

\|/  


It took her four nights of checking the Marauder’s Map every fifteen minutes to find him away from the potions lab and stalking the halls without the potions mistress matching his strides. She immediately shoved her biscuits and tea aside and nearly ran down the four flights of blissfully cooperative stairs.

That was the thing about Minerva’s castle. Responding to its Headmistress, it was playfully maddening when you were at leisure and supportive when you had a purpose.

What had it been like the year she hadn’t been there?

Cold and dismal and uninviting. But protective. Corridors would open and close to hide the oppressed. The Room of Requirement would offer a safe harbor.

The armor would step between the unfairly persecuted and their attackers.

The Chamber of Secrets would open to a Mudblood whose only motivation was supporting her best friend.

The Castle itself had walked the razor’s edge with Severus Snape, never surrendering to Voldemort but opposing him so subtly that he never suspected it of rebellion.

She had been unfair to him, made it about her, made it about her resentment that even after everything they’d been through, even when he proved himself worthy of redemption and they proved themselves worthy of his trust, he acted as if they didn’t exist. But he didn’t have to like her to be a good man. He didn’t have to be friendly with Harry to be a faithful or brave one.

Maybe they were never going to be friends, but they could be colleagues. He wasn’t nearly as bad as he used to be; at times he was almost civil.

Daphne Greengrass saw something in him, even if Hermione wouldn’t quite – to watch the close but formal way they interacted with one another – call it love.

She would treat him as she treated any other clever, well-respected, and conscientious colleague. She squared her shoulders as she heard his footsteps approach, and then stepped into the hallway as he turned the corner.

“Professor Snape! I was wondering if I might have a word –“ she began. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t slow his steps or stop. He was ten paces past her when he spoke.

“Well? Are you coming?”

She had to jog to catch up to him, and it stung her pride a bit. “Look, can we please just start over?”

His stride faltered. “Pardon?”

“I came here because I wanted to make the library the kind of place I always wished it would have been. Inviting and friendly and a place to share ideas. A place where the whole school can come together and find common ground…and I know you probably think that’s all a bunch of soft-headed twaddle and I’m mad, but…you’re Head of Slytherin, and I need your help.”

They walked completely down the corridor – a hundred yards, at least – before he answered her. “What manner of assistance?”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“Perhaps you haven’t researched it thoroughly enough yet.”

It took a moment for her to realize that he was – in some way or another – teasing her. And that he might not mean it to wound. His lips were twitching in a way that looked more like a smirk than a sneer.

“I was hoping you might tell me. I can come up with a hundred ways to ‘help’, but – I need other perspectives. I need you to tell me what I can do to make your students feel at home.”

He stopped, and he was studying her, and for the first time in her life she felt like he was really looking at her, and listening to her, and she felt the easing of a burden she hadn’t known she carried until that very moment.

He nodded. “I will meet you at the Hog’s Head Saturday night at half nine. Will that be all?”

“Yes,” she said, swallowing her thanks and anything else that would seem too supplicating.

He walked away from her without looking back, so she watched him carefully.

He still – for lack of a better word – swooped, but now she saw a grace and fire to his motions.

Once, he had been friendless and alone and mocked. Once, they had been the same.

And with all her advantages in life – with supportive friends and loving parents and teachers and mentors who believed in her – she could still be resentful and petty.

She could still find it in her to cast the first stone.

How could she find it within her to make the world a better place if she couldn’t even manage her own small corner of it?

\|/  


She was waiting with a butterbeer in her hand when he walked into the Hog’s Head ten minutes late. He stopped to speak to Aberforth briefly before he stalked to her table and sat down across from her. He stared at her blandly. “Well?”

“What?” He’d indicated he was coming here to tell her what she needed to know. Did he want to exchange pleasantries first? That didn’t seem very like him. “Hello, Professor Snape. Or should I call you Severus now we’re colleagues?”

His lips curled up in disgust. “That won’t be necessary. Explain what you’re attempting, and why.”

She didn’t want to open her heart up to him, knowing that he’d mock her – even if only in his head – for her idealism and naiveté.

Her hands trembled as she held her glass, trying to figure out how to seem both competent and honest.

She reminded herself that she had walked out on a brilliant ministry career where she had accomplished much and gained the respect of the great, even if she’d surrendered pieces of herself to do it, in order to try this. She didn’t need anyone’s approbation or permission to follow her heart. Even Snape’s.

Especially Snape’s.

She reached into her bag and pulled a stack of parchments from within it. She’d been reading it while she waited, but she hadn’t intended on showing it to anyone. Ever.

She shoved it across the table toward him.

_Minerva doesn’t tolerate bullying, so there’s less overt cruelty than when I was here, but the prejudice is colder and less childish._

_Gryffindor – Neville is a good Head of House. He’s warm and caring and the children see him as heroic and approachable. His bravery is held in high regard by the children, and not just the Gryffindors. He is most inclusive of the Heads – Neville is part Hufflepuff already, and his best friend is a Ravenclaw. And he and Snape have come to some sort of mutual respect which he describes as friendship. Neville has everyone’s respect. Unfortunately, many of his students haven’t followed his lead. When they come to the library, they cloister together, break the rules, and mark up the books. Good at inspiring others when they want to be. Find positions where they can lead._

_Ravenclaw – Filius is still leading the House, and it hasn’t changed much since I was here. Ravenclaw students already see the library as theirs, and they come here in order to find information and study. Get Ravenclaw students to help teach – encourage them to form inclusive study groups? Filius doesn’t pay much attention to practical things and will not lead a charge – probably will support me if I ask and encourage his students to work with me._

_Hufflepuff – need to be given a safe place to explore. Poppy is grounded and practical. Will do whatever I ask – more about encouraging them than demanding. Need to find practical, hands-on ways for them to learn. Need support from me._

_Slytherin – most gifted, least understood. Will do anything to accomplish their goals. MUST BE GIVEN GOOD GOALS. Expect others to mistrust them. Not very open, viz. Snape. But brilliant and determined and v. tenacious. Will make this happen if I can manage to convince them it’s in their interest to help._

_G – plant the idea with Neville – Gryffindor needs to lead and manage_

_R – ask Filius if I can address his house – encourage Ravenclaw to share knowledge._

_H – work with Poppy to develop some kinesthetic processes and lure Hufflepuffs to library._

_S – Goal-setting and appreciation. And…Severus?_

He set the paper on the table between them, and Hermione’s breath was still, waiting for the axe to fall. He leaned back in his chair and studied her closely, which made her relax a bit. Intense scrutiny was better than outright derision. Finally, he spoke. “It’s perceptive.”

She sighed in relief.

“What…precisely…are you attempting to accomplish? What is this a roadmap for?”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “I want them to share ideas, I want them to work together. I want…I want them to have their own Dumbledore’s Army, a hundred of them. But I don’t want it to be Dumbledore’s or an army, I just want them to –“

“I will arrange for you to work with Daphne on your project.”

She started in surprise. Surely it couldn’t be that easy.

He rose from his chair. He hadn’t even had a drink served, Hermione realized, and he was preparing to leave.

“I thought you were going to tell me what your students want from me?” It came out as a question.

“No need.” He gestured toward the paper. “You’ve discovered enough to be getting on with.”

That might be the closest Snape would ever come to effusive praise, and she smiled broadly in spite of herself. “Thank you.”

His walls snapped back into place immediately, and his shoulders stiffened. “I expect something in return, Granger.”

Despite her instincts, she gave him the benefit of the doubt and shrugged. “Name your price.”

He nodded to the parchment that she was worrying between her fingers. “Succeed.”

Without waiting for a response, he flicked his cloak and departed. She stared into her butter beer. All things considered, that had gone a lot better than expected. When she set down her drink and went to retrieve her cloak from its peg, Aberforth passed her.

“Should I be worried? Albus always thought the two of you were unstoppable when you worked together.”

Her brow furrowed as she turned to him. “This is the first time we’ve ever worked together. What do you mean?”

“Reckon it was you and him that worked to keep Potter going. Reckon Albus didn’t leave things to the pair of you without thinking it through, knowing that you’d each do your part. Far as I know there were just two people who followed Potter into that forest and never turned their backs on him, and the other one was Snape.”

She nodded.

She was almost out the door before she stopped, turning around.

“You knew he was a spy. The corridor into the Hog’s Head…”

Aberforth busied himself polishing a glass.

“That’s why you rescued him. You knew.”

He seemed to rub a little harder. Finally, he gave a grunt and replied, “Wouldn’t have been much use as a spy myself if I couldn’t have kept a secret.”

Bits and pieces of that night flittered through her mind, and the memories made her reel with their potency. The fear, the anguish, the determination…the mad confusion.

Suddenly she saw Snape’s hand in all it, guiding the outcome. The power of his belief, guiding them through the worst of the darkness. And there was no one on earth she’d rather have on her side.

\|/  


“Tea?”

“Thank you,” Daphne said, sitting primly on Hermione’s sofa and crossing her legs at the ankles. “That would be lovely.”

Hermione spelled a pot of boiling water and poured it over a bergamot and lavender blend. “Did Professor Snape explain what I’m trying to do?”

“He did.” Daphne accepted the cup Hermione held out and took a careful sip. “We believe that it’s best to work with the pages since they’re already due to begin in the library soon.”

“Won’t their backgrounds make it more difficult to convince the other students to collaborate with them?” Hermione almost bit back the words, but decided that they wouldn’t get anywhere without honesty. She was glad that Snape had sent Daphne in his place – it made it easier to be honest.

“It may, actually, yes. But if our other students see them succeed, it will be…persuasive.”

For a moment, Hermione wondered if Snape was out to sink her.

And then she realized that in another light it could be seen as a compliment. He believed her capable of making a difference and he wasn’t going to offer her a handicap.

“I see,” Hermione answered. “I hadn’t considered that they’re already in place.”

“Hadn’t you?” Daphne let the question hang for a moment. “Did you have a nice holiday, Madam Granger?”

The wheels in Hermione’s head spun furiously as pieces began to snap together.

The testing and baiting. The scrutiny. The request to give the orphans of the Death Eaters an opportunity for employment.

Snape wasn’t her adversary. He was her biggest ally.

She knew he didn’t ever want anyone to reveal the best of him. And yet she misread him anyway.

He was not just working with her – he was putting his probable lover and his students – his children – in her hands.

He had – grudgingly, to be sure – once trusted her to guide Harry through his task. He had kept the wolves at bay and allowed her to work without interfering.

He didn’t hate her. The wounds – on both sides – ran deeper than that. He expected her not to trust him. She expected him to be bitter and angry and cruel.

But he believed in her.

She smiled suddenly. “It was lovely. How was France?”

\|/  


“Severus, this is ridiculous.”

His head snapped up, his quill pausing. “Excuse me?”

She waved a parchment in the air. “This. Is. Ridiculous.”

“I have not given you leave to address me that way, Madam Granger.” His head bent back to his marking.

She walked over and sat in the student chair, but not before spelling cushions onto it first. “Everyone calls you Severus. Daphne and Minerva and Hannah…”

“My friends, you mean.” He continued to ignore her as best he could.

“You can refuse to look at me if you wish, but I’m here to get to the bottom of this.”

“You may continue to speak if you wish, but I have marking to attend to.”

“I want the answer to one question. If you answer one question for me, I’ll go away.”

“Proceed.” He still hadn’t paused in his marking, and his face was half hidden by the shadows his hair cast. But his hands were elegant and sure as they held the quill, and his tight script wound around paragraphs of text in sharp, serpentine patterns. It was mesmerizing, the sight of a master engaging in his art, even though the ink was the color of blood and the words were undoubtedly savage.

“Why did you make that comment about my teeth when I was a girl?”

His writing paused. It was almost as if her insignificant question had hit some sort of mark. He began to tidy up his papers and he recapped his pot as he tucked his quill away. “What possible bearing does the answer have on my request?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he met her fierce gaze measure for measure as he rose from his chair. She unrolled the parchment she was holding with a flourish, and began, in a cloying sort of voice, to read. “’Dear Madam Granger, I would like to employ some of the strategies you and Professor Greengrass have used in my own classroom. Please put together a list of your recommendations and send them to me. Sincerely, Professor S. Snape, O.M.F.C.’ I don’t spend much time at staff functions or meals because I’m trying to remain impartial, but you go out of your way to avoid me. And so I’ve been thinking, and I realized – that’s the moment where it all became personal. You’ve come to respect me, but you still dislike me. And since that’s the first moment where I realized you disliked me, me specifically, I want to know what I did to make you hate me so thoroughly.”

He looked her up and down, and shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say, and then he took two steps back and turned his head away from her. “I believed that you had betrayed Potter – because of your vanity. I apologize if I misread the situation.”

And then he was gone.

And his answer didn’t make any sense at all but it made perfect sense in the context of what had been going on when he shattered her belief in him. The rumor that she had betrayed Harry had been all over the wizarding world. And Snape had been one of the few people who understood just how vulnerable Harry’s position was at the time, and who’d been terrified too. So it stood to reason that he would’ve lashed out at her if he’d believed that she was abandoning their mutual cause.

But even Snape couldn’t be proved so wholly wrong about something and yet still nurse a grudge over it decades later.

Could he?


	3. The Tempest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, thanks for being patient. I was on a regular schedule and then a new work project coincided with a minor heartbreak and I'm just now coming up for air. This story is complete; I'll try to get back on schedule :)

“I don’t get him, Neville.”

“Get who, Hermione? Oi – Hannah, don’t let Douglas get any of his hands on that punch. Bloody hell – bring a three year old to a Valentine’s Ball for adolescents. Don’t know what I was thinking. Anyway, what?”

“Snape.”

“What’s the big deal with him, anyway? His bark was always worse than his bite, and we aren’t children anymore. I thought you were over that by now.”

“I’m over it. He’s not. He’s left his most vulnerable students to me, and he encourages Daphne to work with me. But he won’t speak to me unless he’s forced to.” Hermione took another swig of her punch. “He hates me. And I can’t figure out why.”

“I’m telling you, he’s more or less reasonable most of the time. It’s all in your head.”

Hermione took another swig of the confiscated brew. Valerian and kava and a touch of mescalin. Weasley’s finest Truth or Dare brew. This was an old friend. “Give him the punch, Neville.”

“I’m not going to poison Snape!”

“It’s not poison. It’s a mild relaxant with a little bit of a twist. I’m not asking you to murder him.”

“He’ll know, and he’ll murder me.”

“Look, I just want to talk to him. We’ll be on even footing – here, I’ll finish it off if it will convince you it’s not dangerous.” Hermione swallowed back the rest of the contents of her glass. “It just quiets the inner critic a little.”

“I’m not giving Snape an anti-anxiety potion.”

“Just mix up the glasses.”

“Hermione, no! Merlin’s arse, is this what you’re like if you’re unleashed?”

“Fine, give me another glass.”

“Hermoine –“ Neville put his hand over the adulterated bowl, but she cast a quick spell and batted his hand out of the way, conjuring a glass and scooping up some of the punch. “This is a really bad idea.”

“Neville, I love you. Please don’t make me hex you again.”

He swallowed. “Right.”

Before she could lose her nerve – or regain her wits – she turned and marched over to where Severus was standing next to Daphne and Poppy.

“Professor Snape – can I have a word?”

He looked perplexed, and resistant. His eyes darted to Daphne, who’d gone back to her conversation with Poppy as soon as she realized who Hermione was addressing.

She lowered her voice. “Please – I need your advice.”

She was a little nervous, despite the potion, as she led him out to the staff corridor, and down the hallway to an alcove. She ducked into it and turned toward him, holding out the full glass. “I drank of bit of the punch Neville confiscated. Can you tell me what’s in it?”

He took the glass after a moment, and held it to his nose, sniffing deeply. “Valerian. Mescalin. A trace of Kava.”

His eyes snapped open, and he looked at her with a bit of alarm and a great deal of curiosity. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“Should I be worried?” She asked, scared for a brief moment. He had nailed the ingredients on the nose, and his reaction seemed in excess of the actual danger. This was her potion – she knew it wasn’t dangerous.

“Not at all. But – I never considered this combination. This may be the answer we’re looking for.”

“What?” She had no idea what he was talking about.

“Granger, what are you feeling?”

“I’m confused. What answer?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at her. “Daphne and I have been working to develop a potion with specific characteristics. With a few small modifications, this may be the answer.”

“Then try it,” she challenged. The potions books; the time in the lab. What were they looking for, and why? “It won’t hurt you.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“It’s my potion. After the war, I was so nervous all the time. I had trouble adjusting. So I started knocking about with different ingredients, trying to find something that wasn’t addictive and wasn’t too mood-altering but calmed the worst of the anxiety. George put it on the market as ‘Truth or Dare’. It’s a muggle game, and –“

“Why did you ask me to tell you what was in a potion you developed?”

“Because I wanted to see if you could,” she answered honestly enough. She’d like to see what happened if he drank it, too, but mostly she wanted to engage him. Mostly she wanted him not to hate her. “If you want to know if it works, try it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you daring me?”

“Quit mocking me. It’s my patent – if I find out you’ve cracked the formula and you’re brewing your own batches I won’t hesitate to take action.”

He sighed. “How much do you want for a license?”

“It’s not for sale.” She paused. “But if you won’t be directly competing against George, and you’ll drink it – now – and have a chat with me, I’ll give it to you.”

“You’re blackmailing me.” He looked almost impressed.

“No, I’m not. I’m offering you something you – obviously – want. In return for something I want.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to know why you hate me.”

He looked at her closely. “You won’t like the answer.”

“Not understanding it is worse.”

He drank the potion.

He tilted the glass of punch to his lips and drank it down in one long gulp. She thought he looked more surprised than she felt. “Well. I suppose we should walk. I’m not going back in there with my occlusion shot to hell.”

“Is that why you want it? To prevent other people from being able to occlude? I never realized it would do that.”

She thought of all the ways Snape would be able to use such a potion, and it scared her a little. Dumbledore and Riddle were both dead; he was probably the most accomplished Legilimens alive. He would always have the advantage with such a thing at his disposal. Had she somehow agreed to help with some nefarious plot they were hatching?

They were nearing the staircases when he decided to respond to her question. “I want a wand oath you won’t tell anyone. They’ll make it illegal if they find out what we’re using it for and why.”

She stopped. “Until last year, I was part of ‘them’. What are you doing? If this is unethical – “

“Granger, shut up and give me a wand oath. You’ve trusted me this far.”

What choice did she have? She had to know, if only to protect herself…and those he might mean to harm. He wasn’t asking for an Unbreakable, or even a Fidelius, so he didn’t mean it to be truly binding. He just meant to know if she broke the geas.

She held out her wand and spoke the incantation, and then looked at him sharply. “There.”

“After you,” he answered, waving her onto the stairs. The second story staircase fell cleanly into place, waiting for them.

They walked up two more staircases before she tired of waiting for him to marshal his thoughts. “Well?”

“Here.” He stepped around her, and she followed him into the hall on the third floor. Instead of heading toward the library, however, he took the opposite corridor, leading her to a stone wall.

“Studius,” he whispered at the wall, and it rolled back to reveal an alcove with a low table and a window overlooking the lake. She drew in a breath.

“I never knew this was here.”

“You wouldn’t have got in. It doesn’t admit you if you’re plotting about something or other. It’s meant for studying, and thinking, and talking through ideas.”

“I wasn’t –“ she began, incensed at the way he always seemed to misread her.

“You were dangerous. I fear you may still be, but you appear to have matured. Potter and Weasley – left to their own devices – would have given up on most of the potty schemes you all hatched if you hadn’t prodded them to keep going and found the information you all needed. You were the mastermind, I don’t doubt.”

Well, that was…mostly true, actually. “We were only trying to stay alive and defeat Voldemort.”

“And you managed both. In spite of your early misjudgments. I’m not casting aspersions on your competence, but you must admit I was forced to intercede more often than any of us would have liked.”

That was also…mostly true. It stung a bit. She wasn’t sure she liked a calm Snape. Without the vitriol, his criticisms were less easy to dismiss.

“Sit,” he said. “And I will explain.”

So she sat across from him, kicking off her shoes and snuggling into the sofa, her curiosity – as always – overriding other considerations.

“Next year will mark thirteen years since the war ended.”

She nodded. She could count.

“Several of my former students will be released.”

From Azkaban. The young ones; the ones who had been at the periphery. The ones who, rather than a kiss, had been sentenced to thirteen years. She hadn’t realized…hadn’t thought about it, really.

“Do you know what awaits them?”

“Freedom?”

He laughed. She had never heard him laugh before, and it wasn’t full of mirth. It was rather sad, a chortle that seemed to bow to the absurdity of the world without finding joy in the chaos.

She felt some inexplicable desire to reach out and take his hand, assure him. Instead, she stuck her hand under her knee to quell the temptation.

“You are still so naïve, Hermione.”

The use of her first name, and his gentle tone of voice, shocked her so much that she forgot to be angry at his condescension.

“They already bitterly regret their actions. They will have spent thirteen years with the Dementors, locked on an island devoid of every sort of human comfort. They were boys – most of them didn’t have any sort of career path, or they wouldn’t have joined in the first place. The world doesn’t want them. Many of their family members are dead, and most of their friends. They have no one to help them. What do you suppose happens to a man who has been shut out, excluded, tortured, left to wallow in the darkness with his own demons? One who has never been taught good principles, or better ways to get on in the world? One whose only talents revolve around getting ahead at any cost, and whose only skills involve the Dark Arts. What sort of redemption will they find?”

“Oh my God.” She’d never considered it, had she? Never considered what the other side was like…never considered that not everyone had joined Voldemort because they were evil. Some of them had joined because they were weak, and they didn’t see another way out. “But Draco –“

“Has spent the last twelve years swallowing his pride and riding his mother’s coattails in order to build something for them to come back to. He and Lucius have built their business interests because they know that providing employment is crucial.”

She nodded. Suddenly, she wished she’d been kinder to Draco. She wished she’d tried to help him more, instead of being cool and civil and evasive.

And Snape…he was admitting so much to her. He cared because he knew. He knew what it was to be in that position.

She buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never realized – can I help? What can I do?“

“Shhh.” His voice was almost gentle. “You already have.”

Her head snapped up. “How?”

“How are your student assistants working out?”

“The pages? They’re grand – they’ve made my life a million times easier. I told Daphne –“

“Yes. That they would be getting glowing recommendations on their leaving. Which is precisely what they hope to accomplish. With a letter from Hermione Granger, war hero and Ministry darling, they may just stand a chance of following their dreams. Otherwise, they will be forced to take whatever job we can invent for them.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve helped…”

“I suppose I wasn’t sure you would care.”

That opened a wound. Why did she always end up feeling like a screw up with Snape?

“And the potion?”

He paused, as if gauging his own reaction to it. “It may be sufficient.”

“But for what?”

“Thirteen years with the Dementors…”

He let it hang.

And then finished. “They aren’t strong enough to occlude against their own minds.”

As he did.

Sweet Merlin. He was trying to save them from madness.

She began to cry. “Please let me help. I know I can…I know you don’t like me, but I want to…”

“I don’t like that you jump to conclusions and don’t think through the consequences of your actions, but I will admit that…you are improving.”

“I’m not seventeen anymore. Is that the reason you’ve avoided me?”

He shifted in his seat. “No.”

He looked uncomfortable, and she realized that whatever it was, he didn’t want to admit it. Maybe not even to himself, because while the potion wasn’t loosening his tongue he seemed to be realizing several things in quick succession, and he shifted again.

She remembered what he said about occluding, and knew that he’d risked his own peace of mind because she’d asked it of him. And she felt unbearably guilty for doing so.

But she might never have an opportunity like this again, where she didn’t care so much about the outcome, and his defenses were all in tatters.

“You said it was because you thought I’d betrayed Harry.”

“I said I insulted you because I thought that, not that I’ve avoided you for the past decade because of it. How petty do you think I am?”

“Well then why? It’s not as if I haven’t tried! You threw us all out of your hospital room and said you’d rather be in hell as long as we weren’t there!”

“It was not one of my more lucid moments, Granger.”

“Then why? You even like Neville now! And Minerva, and George, and everyone says you’re just so pleasant and decent and nice now, but not that you ever show that to Harry and Ron and I! And Ron’s a berk, I admit it, but Harry and I have tried and tried and I don’t know what else to do. We’re all on the same side now, dammit! But even when you work with me, you send your girlfriend to do all the talking.”

“My what?” His head snapped up, and his eyes were wide.

She thought back on what she’d just said. “Daphne. You send Daphne to do your talking.”

He laughed again, but this time it was full of amusement and disbelief and mirth. And she decided that when he laughed like that, it was pleasant. She tried not to smile in response. “How on earth did you come up with that one?”

She looked at him dumbly. Because he checked out books for her and spent all his free time with her. Of course, now she knew that there was another motive for that, so she fell back on what she’d told Harry. “Because you both went to Brittany for Christmas.”

“Take back what I said about jumping to conclusions. It seems that your theories are as potty as ever.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

He nodded, as if surprised. “Indulge me. You concluded that because we both holiday with the Malfoys – with her sister, who is married to the son of my closest friends – there was something else besides? If that’s how your mind works, I’m amazed you come up with anything of value at all.”

Hermione blushed. The Malfoys. That’s what Daphne had meant by her family.

She felt unbelievably stupid.

“I’m sorry if I insulted you – it was…ridiculous.”

He laughed again, and she couldn’t figure out why he was so amused by all of it. Unless he was just delighted to finally witness the full proof of her idiocy.

“I mean her no disrespect when I say she is not my type and I’ve never considered her in that light. Regardless of the mutual lack of interest, she is a beautiful, clever, and kind young woman. You’ve hardly insulted me. I rather think you’ve insulted her taste.”

Hermione wasn’t really sure how to respond. It struck her that she didn’t think it was an insult to Daphne’s taste; he was brilliant and unstoppable and brave. And when he was kind, his physical imperfections hardly seemed apparent at all. He wasn’t handsome, but there was a dignity and grace that permeated his features and his motions. He was slight of bone, and his high cheekbones and hawkish nose set him apart. His face was all harsh angles, and it cut interesting shadows. He was strange and delicate and made of steel, elegant in the way of blackbirds and crows.

“Are you sure I’m not right? I mean, maybe you don’t think of her that way, but –“

“She is waiting for Miles Bletchley – her fiancée – to be released.”

“Oh.”

They were both silent. Snape – Severus – rose from his sofa and went to the window, peering out into the darkness.

“I suppose you do have every reason to dislike me.”

He sighed. “Are you really this blind, Granger?”

Her brow furrowed. She supposed she was, because she didn’t understand what she ought to be seeing.

“I avoid you for the same reason I avoid your dear sweet Potter.”

She watched his back, wishing she could see his face. “Because we made your life harder when we were children.”

“Fuck’s sake, you can go from being scary perceptive to having all the insight of a bloody rock! I don’t like being around either of you because it’s a constant reminder of everything I pissed away in life you daft girl!” His voice was raw with emotion. She'd never heard that tone from him...except in his memories.

She swallowed. Lily. Harry reminded him of Lily. Harry reminded him of the one person who’d loved him unconditionally, until one day she didn’t.

But that didn’t explain…

Dear God.

“I remind you of Lily?”

He didn’t answer her.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, tasting the words in her mouth, knowing that she ought to stop speaking while she was ahead – and he hadn’t yet been backed into a corner that he might hex his way out of – but the little voice of reason was so quiet against the roar of her desire to hear his justifications.

He was right. Mutual recreational drug use was a lousy strategy. But she wasn’t sure she disliked the answer now that she had it. Rather, she felt…perplexed. Lily had been, by all reports, beautiful and popular as well as clever. “I’m nothing like her.”

He took so long to respond that she wondered if he ever intended to. She picked at the lint on her robes. She hadn’t been fishing for complements, but she wondered if that’s how it had sounded. Did she really want to know that’s how he thought of her? Because she meant that Lily wasn’t stroppy and brash and sharp-tongued, and didn’t have half the flaws that she did, and he would have agreed instantly if she’d put it to him that way.

“You’re right, of course. You’re nothing like her.”

She felt disappointed in his response, and realized that – for some reason, which she couldn’t quite decipher – she had wanted him to disagree with her. She had wanted him to see that in her.

“You fought your way out of the Dark Lord’s grasp. You never once begged or surrendered. And you’ve never turned your back on your friends.”

She felt tears welling up in her eyes. Had he really just compared her – favorably – to the love of his life?

That was…frightening and exhilarating and sad and terrible all at once.

What ought she do with that sort of knowledge? What did she want to do with it?

She untucked her legs and walked to the window, putting her hand on his shoulder.

He recoiled and whipped around, and his look was venomous. “Have you listened to a word I’ve bloody said? I don’t want to be your friend.”

“You’re not in love with me.” She said it as much to remind herself of that fact as to remind him that he was blowing this all out of proportion.

He snorted. “Of course not.”

“I’m not in love with you either.”

He almost smirked at that. “Obviously.”

“And you think it’s better to just cut our losses while we’re ahead, do you? Avoid each other because you might – if you actually got to know me – be risking something?”

His silence was all the affirmation she needed. She took a step toward him, cautious and slow, as if she was approaching a hippogriff or a thestral. One couldn’t be too careful. He might bolt, she thought, but by now she was pretty certain that he wouldn’t hex her. “I think you’re wrong. And I’d like to get to know you, Severus.”

His eyes widened, and he took a step back to maintain his personal distance, but he didn’t turn away. He raised an eyebrow. “Gryffindors. Full of courage when someone else is bearing all the risk.”

“That’s unfair. What if we find out that I really do annoy the hell out of you and you really prove to be the man I half-fear you are? Then I wind up with a broken heart and you get the satisfaction of knowing you were right all along. It isn’t disproportional, the risk.”

He seemed to poise on the ledge of some great abyss, grasping for a way to respond. His mouth opened and then closed. She had never before seen him rendered speechless. Never.

She felt a rush of affection as she traced the marks of the boy he’d once been. Apparently, the impetuous little hellfire wasn’t gone entirely. He drew his shoulders up a little and looked her over, carefully, as if he’d been waiting for the opportunity to stare at her with abandon. She blushed under his gaze, which seemed like it was full of heat, and bit her lip.

She was in over her head. For the first time in her life, they were seeing each other on equal ground, as a man and a woman. And she was – God help her – turned on by the passion she knew lurked beneath the surface of his rigid self-control.

What would he be like if he was fully off his leash? What would he be like if he –

“I said your potion blocked Occlumency, Hermione.”

She tore her eyes away from where they’d been resting on the curve of his expressive mouth.

“You’re projecting.”

Good God. She blushed from her toes to the top of her hairline and turned her head away from him. She felt his fingers on her chin, drawing her gaze back to his. And his eyes were soft, and determined, and a little frightened. And he let her see his emotions in them; that was the miraculous part. He was letting her read him.

She leaned into his touch. Curiosity had always been her undoing, and now all of it was focused on the man in front of her.

 _Kiss me_ , she thought.

She felt his thumb press more firmly against her chin, and he blinked.

And then they were both projected bodily from the room. One moment she was wondering if he was going to kiss her, and the next she was flying through the air. She landed a fraction before he did, instinctively rolling with the momentum, grasping for her wand as she fell. She wound up on her arse with her skirt hiked around her thighs and her wand pointed toward a large expanse of stone. And he was somehow in front of her, also with his wand drawn, crouching on his toes.

He’d landed on his feet, the bastard. Always showing everyone else up, he was.

Something flew through the wall and he deflected it instantly. It bounced back against the stone with a crack and fell to the floor with a thump.

“Oh, shit!” She scrambled past him on her knees and pulled the bit of leather to her chest, opening the flap. She peered in the depths, and then sighed in relief. “I thought you’d broken my grandmother’s rocking chair.”

He paused in his defense against the Dark Wall and turned his head toward her. “You carry a chair in your _handbag_?”

She nodded, shouldering the strap protectively.

He sounded amazed. “I didn’t believe Phineas. I kept telling him to stop whinging. But you really are weird.”

“Hypocrite. What just happened?”

He chuckled and lowered himself with his back against the wall.

“Remember when I told you the room was just for studying and dialogue?” He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his arms on them. Since he looked like he was curling in for a chat, she scooted around so that she was sitting beside him. Not curled against him, but close enough to reach him with an arm extended. She tucked her knees under herself in a yoga posture. She nodded as she turned so that he would continue. “Ravenclaw put some charms on it. You can’t get in unless your intention is understanding and knowledge. And it ejects you if…”

“If what?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I? But Regulus used to bring his girlfriend up here to study, and they got tossed out arse over tit all the time.”

He looked thoughtful as he tilted his head toward her. “I always supposed it wasn’t the thinking, but the doing.”

She turned so that her cheek was resting against the wall. “How so?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve considered kissing someone in that room.”

And suddenly she realized that it wasn’t just a secret room, it was his space. It had once been his and Lily’s. And he’d shared it with her. He’d brought her there, testing her motives, testing her true understanding. She smiled at him. “Maybe it responds to mutual intention.”

He smiled back at her. It was a smile she’d only seen on a boy’s face, in a pensieve. It was full of relief and gratitude…for kindness and understanding.

“Severus, I want to risk it.”

He dipped his head, and his hair fell like a curtain around his face, hiding his expression. She was tempted to brush it back behind his ear, but she tamped down her instinct and waited for him to consider the consequences.

“I’ll not rush into anything,” he replied after a moment. She realized he was asking for time, for patience, for them not to throw themselves at something that would just invite more heartache.

She didn’t think her heart could handle anymore either. Ron hadn’t shattered it, but he had bruised it. His lack of respect for her had broken it, in the end, and all the affection in the world hadn’t made up for the absence of esteem.

With Severus, she suspected the danger lay in the opposite direction. He had given her the sort of approbation she’d always dreamed of receiving from him, and he’d shown it without her realizing it. But his cold nature and his lack of affection…she wasn’t sure she could live with that either.

But she remembered the boy she’d never met. And she nodded.

“Come on,” she said, rising.

He looked up at her with something like petulance. “I’m comfortable.”

“You’ll be more comfortable in my quarters with a pot of tea and a box of Thornton’s finest. Come on – you can tell me all about your restorative justice plan.”

He shrugged and got to his feet.

“Bletchley will marry Daphne as soon as he’s released, and he’ll help run the potions side of the business. Theodore Nott will – if I can manage to convince Minerva somehow – apprentice with Daphne and take over her position so that she can focus on building a family. I am least concerned about the two of them, as there has been contact, and they were…they were promising young men.” His voice was thick, and sad, and tired. She had somehow matched the rhythm of her steps with his, and she realized that she had instinctively drawn closer to him and their hands were brushing as they walked.

She realized that the moment before he clasped her hand.

She squeezed it in response. “Who else? Goyle?”

He nodded.

“He was kind of a ferret.”

“Hermione, if we’re going to be…friends…”

Was he really going to defend Gregory Goyle? Did he remember Gregory Goyle?

“You can’t use that word around me to describe Slytherin.”

“What word?”

“Ferret. I’ve never been certain why, but Draco thinks it’s a pejorative you all constantly hurl at us.”

She laughed. “He never told you?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Crouch turned him into a ferret. But, you know, we thought it was Moody. And it was just so…on the nose.”

He looked like he was warring between a smirk and disapproval. He was doing so well with a bit of affection that she decided to test and see if he had a sense of humor. “Bet he didn’t tell you I punched him either, did he?”

“You did?”

“Right in the lip.”

“What did he do?”

She smiled; he assumed that it was Draco’s fault. That was big of him. “Said something stupid, I suppose.”

“Are you going to punch me if I say something stupid?”

She giggled. “Possibly.”

“Damn.”

She paused at the door to her quarters, tapping her wand on it. It opened.

“When did you slug him?”’

In for a penny...”Right before I went back for Buckbeak, robbed you of an Order of Merlin, and broke every temporal law on the books.”

He looked at her in disbelief.

“Are you still coming in?”

After a moment, he nodded.

“What are you thinking?”

He swallowed. “That I’m glad we were on the same side, even if you didn’t know it.”

The past settled between them like some tactile thing, and it stretched out its tendrils of grief and bitterness and despair.

She wondered how it would feel when the potion wore off. If the weight of it would bring them to their knees. She decided she might as well address this while she had the courage to do so. “I always knew it, deep down. Even after…”

The tears stung her eyes. She’d carried this inside her for years, the knowledge that he was worth loving, and not known where to put it. Now it seemed lodged in her throat. They stood in her sitting room, and both of them seemed unwilling or unable to move until she’d finished her thought.

“I slipped up with Phineas. I told him where we were…”

She twisted her hands in her robes.

“And I waited to see if you’d act on it…and the next night…”

He’d brought them the sword.

“Don’t.” His voice was soft, and she blinked and looked up at him. He smiled softly. “You lured me here with the promise of tea.”

“I did, didn’t I?” She walked over to the tiny kitchen and pulled her pot from the cabinet, watching from the corner of her eye as he studied her bookshelves.

After a few moments, he reached up and pulled a volume from the shelf. “Hermione?”

He didn’t look up; he didn’t know he was being watched. “Yes?”

“May I borrow your copy of Blake’s Marriage?”

“It’s banned, you know. Even the muggle runs. All that Dark Arithmancy.”

He shrugged. “Are you worried you’ll corrupt me? I’ll take my chances for a week or two.”

She handed him his cup of tea, and waved him toward the sofa. “I’m pretty sure I can’t corrupt you any more than you already are. Honestly, Severus, I’m not sure I ought to loan you books. I’ve seen what you do to your books. I’ll get it back with everything crossed out and a bunch of spells written in the margins.”

He groaned and handed the book back to her, sipping his tea. “I’d hoped you didn’t know all of that.”

“Sorry.” She smiled, realizing as she went to kick off her shoes that they were still in the Room of Deep Thought and that she’d have to go back for them. But later. “I also know that your mum was a Gobstones champion, that she was really Eileen _Pince_ , and that you were kind of a ponce when you were a kid.”

“And I suppose Potter gave you all my memories as well.” He looked a bit disgruntled and put out, but it was…

Snape was pouting and she thought it was cute? Had the world tilted on its axis?

He grunted. “I suppose it makes it all easier, somehow.”

She placed the book in his lap, and her hand over it. “If you ruin my book, make sure I get something really good out of it, like Muffliato.”

“Not a fan of Levicorpus?” He slid the book out from under her hand to place it in his pocket. Her palm slid onto his thigh, but she didn’t move it. She realized more was riding on the question than a simple answer.

“No, Severus. And I wasn’t a big fan of Sirius either, come to that.”

He dipped his head again, hiding behind his hair.

Someday there would come a time she’d tuck it behind his ears for him. That time had not yet arrived. But after a moment he took a sip of his tea, and his hair swept back, and she could see a tiny smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Then maybe this isn’t as risky as it sounded.”

“No.” She settled back into the cushions, and she felt…aware, and nervous, but also strangely comfortable. “I don’t think that it is.”

And as they talked into the night, the unspoken promise and threat lay unacknowledged between them.

_I don’t love you, but I will.  
_

\|/

When she woke up, she spent the first hour and a half thinking she’d gone to bed early and had a strange dream. It wasn’t the potion that made her think that – it was that in her memory, they’d talked long into the night, sipping tea and summoning various books to prove their points. It was that, in her memory, they’d kept going long after the potion would’ve worn off.

And surely, in reality, a perfectly sober Severus Snape wouldn’t have shyly slunk from her quarters at three in the morning.

But it had been a very good dream. And it was going to be very hard to be in the same room with him now, so it was just as well he avoided her so thoroughly.

She wondered about why that really was, and she wondered about why her mind had conjured the explanation it had.

She wondered if she really was – subconsciously – that attracted to Severus Snape. And what a bloody tragedy that would be, back here where he was – quite obviously – in a relationship with Daphne Greengrass.

She wondered if the point of it was just that she needed to try to harder with them. Or if it meant that she should stop trying at all.

She wondered where her illicit copy of William Blake had got off to, and if she ought to be worried.

She wondered if she should pop out to Flourish and Blotts or go visit Harry and Ginny. Maybe they’d meet her at Fortescue’s and she could drown her wandering thoughts in a sundae and a chat.

And then, finally, she wondered what she’d done with her shoes. And it was that which pushed her over the edge and compelled her to shrug on jeans and a jumper and make her way down the corridor.

It took her five tries to get the right place, but she knew her motives were dead solid. She wanted – she needed – to know. Finally, the door appeared, and she stepped through.

He was sitting on the sofa in a shirt and trousers – no coat and no cloak – with his sleeves rolled up. He was reading her copy of Blake and making notes on a spare parchment.

Her shoes were stacked neatly in the middle of the table.

Her mind reeled as he paused, set the quill down, and looked up. “I was hoping to be here when you returned for them.”

“You were?” She glanced between him and the shoes, adjusting to a new reality.

“I wanted to convince myself that you really do…” He didn’t just pause. His speech came to a full stop. He was going to have to stop doing that, stringing her along so that she hung taught, waiting for the rest of his thought. She wanted to beat him upside the head with something. “….owe me the formula for a potion.”

She laughed. “It seems that I do.”

She picked up her shoes and stuffed them into her satchel.

“If I asked for some garden furniture and a croquet set, could you produce it out of that handbag?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she replied, flopping onto the sofa across from him. She mimicked her great aunt Caroline, the one who’d married a spare in the civil service and then found herself a Countess. The one who’d always reminded her of the Malfoys. “Croquet is such a middle class sport, don’t you think?”

“Middle England, middle class. Pretty much all I ever aspired to be.”

She smiled. How could she have forgotten that – like her – he was muggle raised? They really did have quite a bit in common. “I go for Arsenal. If you’re a ManU fan, that’s going to be a problem.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he shot back at her. “I’m working class, which means City.”

“I’m a Republican.”

“So? I think I might be an anarchist.”

“Big fan of Banksy, are you?”

He dropped his quill. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph you're middle class. Next you're going to tell me The Smiths were punk.”

“At least I get your jokes enough to understand you don't even know my taste and you're already mocking it.” This was bloody surreal. And…amazing.

“Fair enough. What do you like?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. The Beatles and the Yardbirds – they remind me of my parents. U2, Sheryl Crow. I don’t know…a bit of everything really.”

“The Weird Sisters? 12th Century Sufi chants with accompanying violins? Minerva’s polkas?”

She shuddered. “Hell, no.”

He sighed with relief. “I can live with that. The iPod is the greatest thing muggles ever invented, short of quantum physics.”

She sat up, whipping around to face him. He looked pleased with himself. “Severus, have you figured out a way to make one work here?”

He smirked. “And if I have, what’s it worth to you?”

“I’ll buy the drinks and we’ll get a bit pissed over lunch at the Hog’s Head.”

He made a great show of pulling his watch from the pocket of his trousers and checking it. “I suppose. I could meet you there in an hour.”

He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Great!” She jumped up, smiling at him brightly. “I’m so excited. I’ll go get my iPod!”

There was a flash of pout, almost instantaneous, before he pasted his usual inscrutable expression on his face.

That wouldn’t do either.

She walked the few steps back to him, and reached for his hand, squeezing it briefly. His eyes flicked up to her, and he swallowed.

“And I’ll bring the formula.”

And before she could get them thrown out of the room again, she dropped his hand and made a hasty exit.

\|/

“Hermione?”

“Yeah? What is it?” She was busy tapping her wand on the books and spelling them back into the stacks, and she didn’t turn to face him.

“Do you have time for a chat?”

She looked up. He was standing at the counter, shifting from foot to foot, smiling at her tentatively. She tucked her wand back into her sleeve and motioned him back around the desk. “Of course.”

She transfigured a couple of the old card catalogs into chairs and waved him toward one of them.

“It’s really great here. I should come up and here and watch them more – it’s so good to see them all working with each other outside the classroom. It kind of feels like the D.A., you know? That’s what Luna said when she visited, and she was right. The D.A. when you were in charge of it, I mean. It was different without you there.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” She smiled at him. “It feels like so along ago, and yet…if I close my eyes, I can remember when I was still so sure of myself, and you were just coming into your own. I can still see us back then.”

He smiled broadly as her face fell.

“Oh God, Neville, I could have finished that with ‘back in our glory days.’ When did we start to get old?”

He laughed. “Don’t be silly, we’re not old.”

“But we’re not really young anymore, either, are we?”

Thirtysomething. It had a sort of death knell to it. And yet – she was happier than she’d ever been. She felt like everything had started to click into place – like her vision was just at the tips of her fingers.

“We’re – oh, bloody hell, Hermione. I need your advice.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I’m worried about Snape.”

She choked. On air.

“It’s not funny!”

Oh God, it was terribly – it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. She bit her lip to keep from laughing in his face.

She pinched her wrist and her face twisted into a grimace. “Right. Why are you worried about him?”

“He’s acting smug all the time and he’s missed dinner twice this week. It’s not like him.”

“Perhaps he’s happy.” She decided to gently misdirect him. “Perhaps he and Daphne are off having a lovely time together.”

He pulled a face. “Daphne’s engaged to Miles Bletchley. It’s a secret but everybody knows it. Besides, she’s been at dinner.”

Everyone knew? How? How had she missed that? She decided that she needed to try to spend more time with Hagrid, even though he doted on her like an elderly grandfather and always made her feel a bit guilty for having had the gall to grow up. It paid to be in on the gossip.

“But maybe you’re onto something. Maybe he’s found someone.” Neville looked pleased, both with the idea and with his apparent brilliance for having thought of it.

God but she loved Neville.

“See? There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

“Right.” His brow crossed. “You don’t think he’ll get hurt, do you?”

“I think he would’ve weighed the risks pretty carefully first, don’t you?”

Neville nodded in relief. “Yeah, you’re right. We all know how high his bar was set. He wouldn’t do it unless he really thinks she’s special.”

She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, and forced herself to nod.

How would Neville take it, when it finally came out?

“That’s so sweet – you’re happy for him, aren’t you? That little chat you had with him must’ve done you both good.”

“Yes.” Should she tell him? She didn’t want to lie, but…they hadn’t discussed this. They hadn’t realized it would be so obvious.

She hadn’t seen him in front of an audience.

Bloody hell.

“You never told me – did you get him to drink the potion?”

“Yes.” One word answers. That was the ticket.

Neville looked thoughtful. Shit.

“Was it a long chat? You didn’t come back after it.”

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t even make herself prevaricate. She couldn’t think of an answer that wasn’t incriminating.

“Bloody hell.”

She blushed, and hissed. “Neville! I didn’t shag him!”

He blushed in return. “No, it’s worse than that.”

“How?”

He smiled crookedly. “You’re seeing if you want to keep him around first.”

“Bloody hell.”

They were silent for a few minutes. One of the students walked over and checked out a book. Another came by to ask if the house elves only served tea or if he was allowed to ask for some chips. Odin Rowle wandered over to tell her that he’d found the forth copy of Moste Potente Potions stuck under one of the sofas. Then he surmised that it was probably a student who was behind on fines and had spelled it there to make sure it stayed in the library where they could access it. Odin said he’d lay a spell to catch the perpetrator.

Hermione must’ve looked a bit alarmed, but he’d recovered immediately, telling her that he wanted to make sure no one fell behind on their studies just because of a few outstanding fines. He sounded so sincere she kind of believed he meant it.

All in all, it was a fairly normal day in the library. Until Neville squeaked behind her. “Hermione, Ron’s going to go _spare_.”

She whipped around. “Neville, nobody is to know!”

He held up his hands quickly. “Not from me, they’re not! You’re already – individually – the scariest two people I know. And you wouldn’t kill me, but you’d screw with me for ages and ages and it would be horrible –“

“All right!”

He stopped panicking. As soon as he realized she wasn’t going to obliviate him, he calmed even further.

Because everyone knew what Hermione Granger’s Obliviate could do. You’d forget she’d even existed. Forever.

“I didn’t mean that. I meant you can’t really go in for the whole life partner thing without people knowing. I meant that.”

Was that what she was signing up for? She wasn’t really sure she was up for that again. The memory of Ron pushing her to start a family and beginning to denigrate her at every turn for resisting before they’d worked out their issues…that was all still rather fresh.

And while she was growing rather fond of Severus, she was sure he wasn’t anywhere near thinking of her that way.

He was really good at occluding. It was kind of a blessing. She’d probably have to get him high again before he’d follow through on his intention to snog her, let alone anything more.

She sighed, and propped her head on her chin. “I don’t know, Neville. It’s complicated. We’re taking it slow.”

“I know.” He smiled at her. “But Hermione, neither of you are what I’d call daft. It’s the scandal of the decade. You wouldn’t do something like this if you didn’t think there was something to it.”

She thought he couldn’t have summed up what she was feeling any better than that.

“It’s something of a fairy trick, isn’t it?”


	4. Chapter 4

“Bloody hell, I thought they were never going to get on the train! Don’t they care how desperately we all look forward to holidays?”

“They’re children, Severus. Easter is an exciting time for them.” She finished pulling the chicken out of the Aga. It looked…passable.

“It’s an exciting time for us as well, because they’re out of the ruddy castle. They ought to show some consideration for our feelings in the matter.”

“Start on the wine, you’ll feel better.” The potatoes were still as hard as a rock. She so rarely screwed them up anymore. She took another long sip from her own goblet.

“Why did you spike the wine?”

She ducked her head around the corner. One eyebrow was raised, but he was drinking it. She wiped her palms on her skirt to dry them.

“Because…”

“Tsk. Where’s all that vaunted Gryffindor courage now?”

He knocked back the rest of the glass and smirked.

Harry called him the bravest man he knew.

She smiled nervously.

“Because you don’t have to be around for your students in the morning, do you?”

The potion hadn’t really kicked in yet. He looked sincerely alarmed. “No. Why?”

She held the smile. “Relax. I was just hoping to make a late night of it.”

He unwound a bit.

“We do that even when it’s not a good idea. And?”

“I was kind of hoping that we could get ourselves thrown out of the room. But for good reason this time.”

She ducked back into the kitchen to give him time to think about that. And for the potion to work.

She didn’t even realize he’d got up from the table until he was directly behind her, and she kept her eyes down as she turned toward him.

She wondered if he was as nervous as she was.

He must be, because his hand was trembling when it came to rest on her cheek. “I’m too old to risk life and limb for this, Hermione.”

She nodded. Did he mean he wasn’t up for taunting the castle, or wasn’t up for…

And then his lips were on hers and she could feel his eyelashes fluttering against her cheek. And he tasted like wine, but also like butterbeer and fresh parchment and…

And it wasn’t Ron or Hogwarts or home, it was him.

And she understood what Amortentia was meant to do.

Her tongue darted out and slid over the crease of his lips, and he opened them, and then he was exploring the taste of her teeth and she felt like she was going to melt. His hand burned her cheek as it rested against it and she pressed herself into the curve of his arm and he rested his other palm stiffly on her waist. It was awkward and fumbling and glorious.

He drew away, breathing deeply through his nose, his hands falling to his sides where his fists clenched.

“You see why I was reluctant to do that?”

She nodded dumbly.

“I’ve had very little opportunity to practice.” He sounded defensive.

It snapped her out of her daze, and she laughed and handed him the platter of chicken. “It was far and away the best snog of my life.”

“It was?” She kissed his cheek and walked toward the sitting room, smiling to herself. Softly – faintly, so that he could deny having said it – he mumbled, “It was.”

“Put it this way,” she replied, straightening the utensils. “Do you have any Amortentia in your bottomless stash of restricted potions?”

He sat at the table, but he ducked his head so that his hair fell around his face. She reached over and swept it back, tucking it behind his ear. He smiled shyly. “I never thought it was good for anything. Until now.”

She took a bite of chicken, giving him time to process his thoughts. Reluctantly, he raised his fork and began to eat. When the line of his shoulders had relaxed, she leaned forward. “We could brew a batch. Isn’t Daphne at the Manor?”

He smirked. “Are you going to make me follow the instructions in the book? Because I don’t want a row.”

“You can do whatever you like, so long as it resembles the original in some form or another.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You always do.”

He put down his fork. “I don’t have much experience with this.”

“I don’t really either,” she assured him. Did he think she was some sort of nymphomaniac? “It was only ever the one for me. And that’s been longer than you might suppose.”

He looked vaguely disgusted, probably at the thought of Ron having got there first. She didn’t really regret Ron, not exactly, and she still loved him – in a strange way that had more to do with a history of partnership and affection than any sort of present attachment – but she wished that he and Severus didn’t know one another quite so well.

“I don’t mean that,” he said, sounding a bit offended. “I’m not some sort of misguided innocent.”

Oh. He meant _that_.

The thing they didn’t allude to. Ever.

“Well, obviously, neither of us have any experience with this particular thing. But we seem to be getting on all right so far, don’t we?”

He nodded. They ate in silence, but it was companionable. When he noticed she was finished, he spelled away the dishes and they rose.

“Do you really want to brew tonight?”

“I’d love to, just let me change into –”

He caught her arm, though, as she moved toward the door, and kissed her softly and briefly. Tentatively.

She sighed in contentment, and ran her fingers through his hair.

And then he groaned, and pulled her tight against him, and opened her lips with his tongue. His fingers flexed where they rested on her hips, and she felt his arousal unfolding against her stomach. She wound her arms around his neck so that she could press herself against him, and heard a moan and wasn’t sure which one of them it came from. His tongue flicked against the back of her teeth, and her nipples pressed against the fabric of her shirt, raw and aching. She finally drew away from it from sheer overload, and rested her forehead against his chest. His thumbs continued to flick against her hips, and his erection throbbed against her navel to the same rhythm. She felt slick with desire and terrified and elated all at once.

“Do you still want to brew tonight?”

His breath was hot against her ear. She shook her head against his chest.

“I’m terribly out of practice, but I’m willing to risk it if you are.”

And she knew he meant so much more than he intended by it.

She took a deep breath, weighing her options. When had the scale tipped that far? She shifted against him, and felt him twitch in response.

She felt fumbling and unsure, like a teenager. Except she suspected that many of the students were a whole lot more experienced with this than she was. She leaned her shoulders back, and watched his face as her fingers began to toy with the top button of his shirt. When he didn’t object, she slipped it through the hole. His thumbs pressed deeply into the bones at her hips and he spread his fingers against her bottom.

She felt like she was going to explode right there.

“Can we drag this out next time?”

He looked at her in surprise, and twitched against her again. “Gladly.”

Somehow they stumbled into her bedroom, turning their backs on each other as they disrobed. She beat him to the bed and ducked under the sheet, her cheeks red with embarrassment.

Apparently, the first time was awkward even when it wasn’t really the first time. She didn’t look at him until she felt him slide beneath the sheet as well. He scooted close to her, but he didn’t touch her.

“Are you sure?” He looked nervous, and skittish. She rolled over, placing her hand on his hip. It was bony and sharp, and his skin was hot to the touch. His eyes flickered closed as she touched him, and remained closed as he groped under the sheet, sliding his hand over her ribs until it cupped her breast. He ran a calloused knuckle over her nipple and she moaned, scooting closer. She felt the tip of his erection bump against her thighs and opened them. His fingers pinched at her nipples then, firmly, and he went absolutely still as his length jutted into her, his foreskin pushed back against the slickness that covered her folds. She flexed her hips, and he groaned as the head slipped inside.

“Severus, open your eyes.”

He shook his head, and breathed, “I won’t last.”

As if to prove his point, he abandoned his exploration of her chest and slid his fingers down between them, searching for and then flicking against her nub. Her thighs twitched in response. “If you keep doing that, I won’t either.”

He didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled as he rolled his knuckles against the base of her clitoris. He could find it (metaphorically) blindfolded – that was extremely promising. She rolled over on her back, away from him.

He had to navigate then, because the mechanics of the whole thing made total blindness impracticable. But he kept his gaze firmly affixed on her chin as he rose up on his elbows and placed his knees carefully between her outstretched legs. She smiled nervously, and he saw it peripherally, and a slight smirk graced his features.

She arched her back and trailed her fingers over his ribs, glancing down at the space between them. His erection jutted out from a patch of dark hair which trailed up a thin torso. He didn’t have much hair, and his chest and arms were decorated with muggle tattoos which covered over deeper, less self-inflicted scars. His skin was fishbelly pale and his arousal was purple in contrast. She moaned as he prodded at her experimentally, and she used the advantage of being able to see what was happening to point him in the right direction. He lodged against her entrance when he found it as if he was reluctant to push in. She pulled her feet up against his knees, pulling down at his hips, and then he was buried inside her, stretching her, and it had been so long that she realized that she was slick as she was she was tight and she could feel the his blood throbbing against her spine. She rolled her hips, rocking against his sharp pubic bone, and moaned. “Oh God, that feels so good.”

He imitated her motion, pressing his chest down against her breasts, and burying his nose in her hair. She clutched at him frantically. “Yes, that – yes.”

“Hermione,” he choked in her ear, as he pressed tighter and came to rest so deeply inside her that he twitched – painfully and wonderfully – against her cervix with every rock of his hips. She felt herself tighten around him as she rubbed herself shamelessly against him. He wasn’t even thrusting, but she was so close, and her breath was coming out in little panted moans, and then she clenched and exploded and it tore an ‘oh god’ from his throat and he began to thrust against her and she shattered. And she came to her senses just in time to realize that he opened his eyes and looked down at his shaft buried within her and her body rocking against his before his face twisted in a sort of anguish, and he cried out as he came.

And then he rolled off her with a groan, but not before covering her mouth in a searing kiss.

When he could speak again, he let out a disgusted little groan. “I’m sorry. That was pathetic.”

“Are you kidding? That was mind blowing.” She lay on her back, seeing stars on the ceiling.

“If it lasted five minutes, I’d be surprised. Not exactly the impression I wanted to give.”

“What’s that?”

“Gagging for it.” He paused, flinging his arm over his eyes. “I know I’m fifty years old, but I can do better than that.”

She giggled. “Do you mean next time you plan to toss off in the lav first? Because I assure you – unnecessary.”

“Good God.” He sat up a little, peering down at her. “How do you know that?”

“It took me six months to realize why Harry always hogged the toilet on nights when Ginny slept over.”

He looked gobsmacked. After several moments, he shook his head. “Why did I need that image? You may have put me off sex entirely.”

“That would be tragic. Besides, it’s not nearly as bad as what I finally told him he should do.”

“You give Potter advice about his sex life?”

She nodded, flicking a lock of his hair. “Of course now, it’s the opposite problem. Maybe next time he whinges I should tell him to write you and ask for suggestions. Anyway, I suggested that he just think about the lovely time Dolores had with the Centaurs, and it worked like a charm.”

“You’re actually evil, aren’t you?” He grinned wickedly, and settled down beside her.

“Possibly. Does that bother you?”

“Quite the opposite,” he murmured, sighing in contentment. She lay for a moment, secure and safe in the circle of his arms.

“Severus?” He was silent. “It was worth the risk.”

He didn’t answer. She lifted her head a little. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be asleep.

But she saw the little self-satisfied grin that crossed his mouth when he thought she’d settled back in and afterward she wasn’t really certain which of them fell asleep first.

\|/

The Easter half-term passed in a haze of sex, brewing, reading and lively discussion. They barely left their rooms except to floo through, half-dressed, to the lab.

She knew somewhere in the recesses of conscious thought that a holiday was just that – a break from reality – and that they could not continue as they were after the students returned, but she didn’t think about it with any sort of specificity. From Saturday to Sunday week they existed in their own world and kept the rest at bay. They dabbled, recklessly and recreationally, in all the potions they were both still curious about, or curious about in that specific context. Amortentia, Truth or Dare, a couple of sex draughts, and something Severus trotted out which too closely mimicked the effects of passing a joint around for her to think the similarity – given his muggle background – was accidental.

And then late Sunday morning, an hour before the students were due to start arriving, he’d gone into the bathroom as Severus and returned to the bedroom as Professor Snape.

“I don’t want to ruin our working relationship,” he’d said, adjusting the twist of his cuff. “I think it’s best if we separate the two.”

She’d watched him, marveling at the way his whole posture had changed by the time he emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed. She’d still been lounging in his bed, too shagged out to think properly or move. She’d asked him, then, “You mean our friendship?”

And he’d nodded, and then told her he’d see her in the staff lounge after dinner. She hadn’t quite known what he meant at the time. But then later, he had joked and chatted with her and Neville and Daphne while Bullstrode droned on about Quidditch and they’d all gotten a little squiffy and then he’d said something about a house meeting and bid them all goodnight.

And he hadn’t come knocking for some biscuits or a cup of tea or another night of wild shagging later. She’d sat up half the night trying to anticipate his next move, and then had finally passed out from exhaustion and nettle wine. And they’d met for lunch the next day, as usual, but he’d brought his usual book and so she’d pulled several from her handbag and stared at the pile the whole hour and a half, wondering why he wasn’t touching her beyond handing her teacups and butter.

She hadn’t paid any attention to the students that afternoon. She’d been lost in fantasies where she got to study his tattoos and his scars, and trace the outlines with her tongue while he panted and keened beneath her. She’d shifted uncomfortably in her chair and hoped no one realized she was…god forbid…so aroused she couldn’t properly function.

She tried not to remember waking in the middle of the night to his mouth sucking against her clit and his fingers buried inside her. He’d brought her to a moaning release and then rolled her onto her stomach and bit at the back of her shoulder as he rode her with short but explosive thrusts.

She had always wanted to experiment, but sex with Ron always felt awkward unless it was strictly vanilla. She always felt like she was asking him to do something a bit perverted, and that he was submitting to her whims out of conflict avoidance rather than any real interest in exploring new territory.

After realizing that dwelling in fantasies was both pointless and dangerous, she’d decided that a little research was in order. She’d headed back to the Restricted Section to retrieve a couple of grimores only to find herself foiled by her own intent-based defenses. It had taken her a half hour of problem solving to find a loophole in her wards and exploit it, and a moment later she’d been struck with an idea and wound up grabbing a different set of books entirely.

She looked down at the map again. He was approaching the staircase to the third floor. She shifted again in fear and desire and anticipation, and stood up. She was prepared for him to walk through, tease her gently about getting some sleep, and then complain about his duties briefly. She waved her wand just as he reached the back staircase, and then quickly folded the map and stuck it in the drawer.

She met him in the corridor. She was leaning against a wooden door, her hands clasping nervously.

His stride slowed but didn’t falter as he noticed her, and his face flickered with a melee of possible responses before his lips curved up in a smile. “What are you doing?”

His response gave her courage, and she tapped one of her palms on the door. “Look.”

He gazed at the space around her before raking his eyes up the length of her body. “I’m not going in there with you dressed in that…that.”

Interesting. The flimsy cotton sundress – an inexpensive purchase at H&M before a cousin’s garden wedding – wasn’t provocative. Neither were the leather sandals or the pale yellow tint she’d spelled onto her toenails. But his nostrils were flaring as he studied her. She’d dressed as a muggle with intent, to test his response, and it was telling.

“It’s safe now. Let’s just say I’ve given it a sort of immunity.”

“Immunity?”

“To us. You and I can use the room for whatever purposes –“ she drew the word out to make her point, “we want.”

He looked intrigued for a moment, and then wary. “How?”

She smirked. “Magic.”

And then she ducked through the door, not waiting for a response.

But when he came barreling through, a moment after, and bore down on her with all of his talent for intimidation, his responses were everything she’d hoped.

\|/

It was the strangest thing. Their nights together changed so little, after that. They still sat companionably, and talked, or they brewed, or they worked on their projects side by side. He still only gave her two nights a week in her quarters, but on others he welcomed her into his. They still feel asleep far too often on his sofa or hers, and woke with stiff necks but a sense of happiness.

They didn’t sleep in the same bed. In fact, he hadn’t been in her bed again, nor she in his, since the Easter break ended.

But they shagged like jarveys.

Two days later, he’d paused during his obligatory patrol and taken in her in the alcove behind the Restricted Section. It had been brief and passionate and explosive, and then he’d disappeared back into the castle. She’d watched his steps on the map and noticed that they didn’t deviate from his usual pattern.

The next night, he’d led her up to the Astronomy Tower with the excuse that he’d read an interesting journal article about celestial cycles in potions-brewing. They sat up there and talked about the past, about Remus and Tonks and Fred and Dobby and the scars the war had left on the still-living.

He never so much as kissed her. Neither of them alluded to Harry or Lily or Dumbledore, although they were somehow more present for it. They’d fallen asleep on her sofa.

The next day, he’d sent her a note with his office hours and then warded the doors behind her and they cushioned the stairs in his classroom. It was almost an adolescent tumble, all wild passion and physical abandon. She’d ridden him, her hands trailing over his luminescent skin as he licked the beads of sweat from her sternum and nipped at her breasts.

It continued on in the same vein all through April.

He was compartmentalizing, she was fairly sure, but it was all right. It gave them both some time to adjust without upending things entirely.

But as the month drew to a close, she began to fret, and knew that they would be forced to have a discussion, and that he wouldn’t like it.

She left it until the last day of the month to broach the subject. They were curled up on his sofa and he was doing his marking when she took a deep breath and plucked the quill out of his hand.

He grabbed for it, but she pulled her arm back.

“Give it back, you daft cow.”

“We need to talk.”

It was strange. It wasn’t until his shoulders drew up and his pupils hardened into pinpoints that she realized she never saw the Professor Snape mask anymore and that she barely recognized it. She rubbed at his shoulder, which didn’t give. “Stop that, will you? We need to talk about the party.”

“Oh.” In a moment, the mask disappeared. Like magic. “Shit.”

She giggled, relieved. “It will look just as odd if either of us misses it as if we arrive together. How do we intend to handle…a public appearance?”

“Do you have a preference?” He asked it carefully, cautiously, and she snuggled up against him, tossing his quill on the table.

“Well, instead of rudely telling me to shove off at the starter buffet, or telling Harry that it was kind of the Prophet to run the rare pictures that only show him in a good light, I thought you might attempt a bit of civility. For a change.”

“Is that all?”

She wasn’t sure if he sounded relieved or disappointed. “I think if we’re seen holding a civil conversation it will give them plenty of gossip for now, don’t you?”

His fingers tugged at her curls, pulling them taught and watching as they snapped back into place. And then he pulled her tighter. “I have a better plan.”

But he didn’t tell her what it was. Instead, he lured her into the bedroom and explored her body, carefully and slowly. And he fell asleep in her arms, and slept in her bed on a school night.

\|/

As soon as she sat down, she realized something was dreadfully wrong. Hannah and Neville looked like their usual selves and greeted her warmly, but Harry and Ginny avoided eye contact, and George’s expression was unusually warm and sympathetic. Her eyes narrowed and she glared at Neville. His widened, and he glanced between Harry and George. And then he shook his head. “It’s not that, Hermione.”

“Harry, what’s wrong?” She unfurled the napkin on her lap and tapped her knife against her plate.

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “You look really pretty tonight.”

What on earth? Her eyes slid to Ginny, who smiled nervously. “Yeah, you look great. That’s a really brilliant color on you.”

Ginny’s eyes darted toward the empty chair and she swallowed.

“Is something the matter with Ron?”

“He decided not to sit with us tonight,” George answered, gently.

“Why ever not?” Thank God, they weren’t on to her and Ron was apparently still relatively in one piece. She tore off a corner of her roll, raising an eyebrow.

Ginny shook her head, a bit dazed, and – detecting a weakness – Hermione held her gaze.

Ginny shifted. “We didn’t think it was a good idea. He brought a date, see?”

Hermione shrugged, popping the piece of bread into her mouth.

“It’s a bit awkward, right? They’re with Bill and Percy.”

She glanced over at the table in the corner. Ron was sitting next to Penny, and a blond was at his side. When she turned her head, Hermione saw that it was Gabrielle, and she thought – _of course_. The table was crowded, as if too many seats had been drawn up to it, and she counted. The three Weasley couples. Poppy, Minerva…and Severus.

Gabrielle had used to sit alone between her sister and Penny, rounding out the numbers. And now Ron had squeezed in next to her.

Hermione looked back at the empty seat beside her. It seemed the universe was determined to give her opportunities, even if she didn’t know what do with them.

She rose, folded up her napkin, and kissed Harry on the cheek. “We’ll chat later, yeah?”

And she threaded her way through the tables to theirs. She crouched down next to Ron, on the balls of her feet, and tried not to notice the way Severus was watching her out of the corner of his eye. Ron turned his head to look at her.

“Hey.”

She smiled. “Hey you. Hi Gabrielle.”

“Hermione.”

“Why don’t the two of you exchange places with me?”

The whole table was silent, watching them with interest.

“Harry needs some reassurance.”

Ron hesitated for a moment, and Bill jumped in. “It’s all right, Hermione. Snape was just telling us it’s about time he sat with Harry at one of these things.”

Her eyes snapped up. “He was?”

“I’m sure I’m not the only one rather tired of reading about our mutual loathing in the Prophet, am I?”

She nodded. “Right.”

He rose, vanishing his chair and place setting.

And he walked right by her. Ron whispered, “Mental, isn’t it?”

She smiled at him, genuinely. “Yeah.”

He was already sitting next to Harry – in her chair – when she caught up with him. And if possible, everyone at the table looked even more uncomfortable than they had before.

What was he playing at? Was this part of his plan? But he couldn’t have known about Ron and Gabrielle. He would have warned her otherwise. She nodded at him as she slid in next to Angelina. “Professor Snape.”

“Madam Granger.” He snapped the napkin across his lap. Hannah and Neville were passing nervous little glances and trying to remain unnoticed.

Hermione bit her lip, trying to think of something to say.

Severus spoke instead, turning toward Harry. His voice was full of irony. “So, Potter, heard from your aunt lately? How’s she getting on?”

“Um,” Harry said, his voice cracking. He tried to appear casual, but she could almost see the strain he was under keeping his bafflement in check. “Right. Good, yeah, she’s…”

“We’re not on very good terms with Petunia, is what he means,” Ginny interjected, recovering first. “Strange as that sounds.”

“Please,” he answered, craning his neck and looking toward the dais as if eagerly awaiting the onset of speechifying. “It doesn’t sound strange in the least.”

All his attention was focused on Kingsley, who was approaching the podium. He pretended not to notice as the rest of them exchanged wondering little glances around the table.

But his knee rested against hers under the table, and she hid her smile in her napkin, and let the night unfold as it would.

\|/

“Thank Merlin you had time to meet us,” Ginny said, leaning over the table and kissing her cheek while trying to hold a spoon out of Jamie’s reach. “We got you a dulce de leche.”

“Thanks. Hey Harry,” she said, digging the spoon into the caramel. “So, what’s up?”

“We didn’t really have a chance to catch up last night, did we?” He pulled Jamie onto his lap and offered him a spoon of chocolate iced cream, which the boy pounced on.

“Oh. Not really, no.”

She was dreading this conversation.

“I mean, Snape stayed another half hour after you left, and we couldn’t say anything with him around. It was…”

“Really awkward,” Ginny finished.

“Yeah, I mean after all this time. But it was also – I dunno. It was good.”

“Mmmhmm,” she answered. She licked a bit of vanilla off her spoon.

“But yeah, that’s selfish of me. It’s not like you want to hear about all this again. Are you all right, Hermione?”

She didn’t want to seem alarmingly blasé, so she nodded. “About Ron and Gabrielle?”

Ginny jumped in. “Yeah. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you in advance, but he wasn’t going to go with her, and then she got all upset about it and said he was keeping her a secret. So he got backed into a corner.”

Ginny, Hermione thought, would always manage to play peacemaker between her and Ron. It had made for some rough spots in their friendship during the demise of her marriage, and she was amazed that they’d all managed to hold things together so well.

They really were her family.

“It’s all right.” She smacked her lips, and offered her spoon to Jamie. “Makes sense, actually. He’s always behaved himself a bit better when she and Fleur are around. And I think she’s got a bit of hero worship going on.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “But if it turns into something more, you won’t be…”

She bussed Jamie’s nose with her thumb, and smiled broadly at her oldest friend. “I’m sure. I want Ron to be happy, whatever that means.”

He smiled gratefully and flung a peanut at his wife. “It’ll work out for you too, Hermione. You’ll see. It’s just that nobody’s good enough for you.”

She wondered what his response would be if he knew the truth – that she thought she might’ve fallen in love with a man who he’d once described as ‘worse than Voldemort.’

She shrugged. “Thanks, Harry.”

They all played with Jamie for a few boisterous minutes, but then Harry looked back up at her. “I mean, if Snape found somebody, there’s no way you won’t.”

“Huh?” What had he told Harry in the half hour between the point she claimed a headache and apparated out and the point he’d shown up in her bedroom?

“I thought about what you said about him and Daphne Greengrass when I was wondering why he was sitting with us. And I think maybe he’s pretty serious about her…because…”

“Because why?” She whispered, suddenly desperate to know what Harry had seen. And how it had changed things for him.

He ruffled his hand through his hair. “Because it finally seemed like he could look at me and see something other than my parents. Other than my mum.”

Hermione swallowed, knowing how loaded this was for Harry. Knowing that he needed to talk about it, and she wouldn’t be a very good friend if she wasn’t willing to listen.

She nodded, and said casually, “I suppose he might be moving on.”

He smiled.

Ginny snickered. “That isn’t what you said last night, dear.”

He blushed.

Hermione leaned forward, sneaking an arch glance at Ginny. “Come on, Harry, what’d you say?”

“Stop. You’re awful when you gang up together.”

Ginny burst into laughter, and Harry tried to kick at her under the table and pouted. Ginny could barely get the words out. “He said – that he finally – Merlin! – understood what his mum saw in him.”

“Yeah, and she didn’t want to shag him either, the big git. It wasn’t creepy!”

Hermione laughed – a real, deep laugh – full of delight. Harry looked mutinous, but she thought that maybe things weren’t going to be as bad she’d feared.

Harry wasn’t going to show up at the altar and…

Things were much worse than she’d realized. For her.

She realized how relieved she felt at the thought that maybe Harry and Severus could eventually learn to get along, and she realized how much she’d had riding on the outcome.

And that was the moment she saw the whole of his so-called plan, and realized that he intended to slowly charm her friends into submission.

So she might very well be in trouble.

But so was he.


End file.
